If Not You, Who?
by whyyesitscar
Summary: AU. Naomi just wants the chance to be loved.
1. Part One: Effy

**A/N: Okay, so this is me eating my words. Clearly I'm not done with Skins or fanfic. (You can call me a hypocrite or a liar; I'll take it). I got this idea while I was reading late one night, and let's just say it had to be written. It's gonna be a long one, kiddies, so stick around. Also, caveat: this is inspired by a book. I'm not going to tell you which one because it might spoil things for those who haven't read it. However, this first chapter is pretty reminiscent of the first chapter of said book and has a lot of little hints. So if you have a guess, you can PM me if you want. But please, DON'T put guesses in the reviews. I don't want to ruin things for anyone. (Also, if you do end up guessing correctly, let me just say that this will be a far cry from the original plot, so you won't know everything that happens).**

**Either way, please enjoy.**

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><p>I stubbed my toe against my bedframe as I made another circle around my room. There was probably a dent in the cheap wood; it wasn't the first time I'd walked into it. It certainly wouldn't be the last. I spent more time cooped up in my room than I did around people—unless, that is, my aunt wanted to show me off.<p>

That's not as nice as you'd think. With anyone else, it might indicate a sense of pride; with anyone else, you might think that my aunt was genuinely pleased of my accomplishments. But she isn't. She uses me as a way to boost her reputation. She parades me around at social functions and makes sure to let everyone know that I'm her orphaned niece—her poor, unwanted niece, left alone when her parents died until she, Jenna, was good enough to take me in, purely out of the goodness of her heart.

Let me tell you something about my aunt: there is no goodness in her heart. I've been living with her since I can remember. I've lived with her almost since the day I was born; I've had to put up with twelve years of Jenna and her two horrible children. I might have had a decent childhood if my uncle was around, but he died when I was very young. My mum was his favorite sister, as I've heard it, which I'm sure is the only reason my aunt puts me up at all. Sometimes, when she's feeling particularly cantankerous, she tells me that Uncle Robert only loved my mother because no one else would.

The Miller household isn't really that fond of me. My aunt loathes everything I do; sometimes she glares at me just for sitting in a chair, or eating at the dinner table, as if I offend her simply by existing, by _daring_ to breathe the same air she does. She's got an icy stare, that one. Behind straight black hair and well-groomed eyebrows lurks a hostile soul. Unless you've got money or you happen to be her spawn, she doesn't want anything to do with you. The fact that she has to live with someone who doesn't fit into either of those categories is her biggest burden.

That's me, Naomi Campbell. The unappealingly-human ball and chain clamped around Jenna's ankles and dragged everywhere.

She reminds me every day that I'm less than her, somehow inferior because I've got no parents or other relatives. I want to tell her that family works two ways, that if I've got no one but her, she's got no one but me. Somehow I don't think she'd appreciate it, and I know there would be someone within hitting reach. There always is.

My cousins Abigail and Josh are the worst. When I was younger they would pinch me, poke me in the eye or somewhere just as sensitive. As we got older, they moved onto scathing words and smug taunts. "Nemo," they'd call me. They still do. I liked it at first; it seemed kind of cute and friendly. I would be their friend if they'd let me, but they never have. I asked Abigail what it meant once; it was a quiet day, one marked by rare ignorance. I thought maybe she had some reason for calling me Nemo, and maybe it was a happy reason.

"You know, from that movie," she said, bored. She kept flipping through her book, never once bothering to look up at me. She wasn't really even looking at the pages, either. "You're like that fish that gets separated from his dad, only no one cares enough to come looking for you."

I retreated that day to my room, and I've barely come down since.

It could be worse, I guess. I could be the kind of person who needs company to be happy. I'm not. I can function just fine on my own, in my room, playing with secondhand dolls and broken board games. And when I get sad that my stuffed dog only has one eye, or that there are 51 cards in my torn deck, then I walk around my room and try not to think about anything. I like to walk. I can close my eyes and make a loop around my bed, past the tiny desk chair and lamp, and if I try hard enough, the walls are soft ivy vines when I touch them. My toes touch grass instead of thinning carpet when I wiggle them; a light breeze blows across my face, carrying with it the pleasant fragrance of flowers instead of stale air.

Today, however, was not a day for roses or dew-tipped grass. It was winter in my private garden, and I'd knocked my toes into a block of ice.

"Naomi!" My aunt's shrill voice carried up the stairs; I winced.

I ran to the top of the landing. She always hated it when I yelled back. "Yes, Jenna?"

She crossed her arms and glared. "Would you like to try that again?"

I blushed and hung my head. "Yes, _Aunt_ Jenna. What do you need?"

"Come down and play with your cousins. I don't trust you being in that room alone all the time. Who knows what you get up to?"

"Yes, Aunt Jenna." She snapped her fingers and I followed her slowly down the stairs.

Abigail and Josh were in the living room playing on Josh's Xbox. Really, Josh was playing and Abigail was complaining. It was how they did everything. I sat down on the couch; I knew that neither of them really wanted anything to do with me. Jenna was just suspicious. She wanted me somewhere she could keep her eyes on me.

"What's she doing here?" Abigail griped. "She'll mess up our fun."

"She can't stay in her room forever, Abby," Jenna explained. "I hate to think what goes on up there."

"She probably talks to herself," Abigail jeered.

"No, she just walks in circles. I listened once," Josh said, tapping furiously at his controller; something on the screen blew up with an unnecessarily loud explosion.

"What a freak."

I sat in silence, actively restraining myself from talking back. I was seething, make no mistake. But I'd lived with them long enough to know that even though they were past the age when it was acceptable to tattle, they'd still do it. Jenna let them get away with anything if they said I'd done it. So I kept my mouth shut and plotted all the ways I'd like to see them get physically maimed. A fire, maybe a car crash that resulted in the loss of their limbs—Josh's hands, so he'd never play video games again, and Abigail's legs so she couldn't run. Nothing too fatal; I wasn't about to wish death upon them. Just, you know. Just enough.

"She's not even saying anything," Abigail continued. "I bet she knows it. She knows she's a freak."

"I'm not a freak," I grumbled. I knew Abigail was only trying to get a rise out of me, but I couldn't help it. She always managed to anyway.

"Yes, you are," she said, smiling triumphantly. No matter if I put up a good argument, she'd already won. "You're just a freaky orphan who stays shut in her room all the time. You're weird."

"I'd rather have no parents than have your mum," I shot back.

Josh put his game on pause and stood up angrily. "You take that back," he demanded.

"No, I won't," I said firmly. "Your mother is vile and cruel, and you'll all die alone."

Josh's face contorted in fury as he clenched the controller. It was the smirk that did it, and I knew it was a mistake before I even let my lips quirk upwards. I shouldn't have egged him on. He would taunt me, fling words back at me twice as vicious as mine just because he could, or he would go crying to Jenna. I could never completely win with Josh or Abigail.

But oh, what I wouldn't give for the rare swoop in my chest when they ceded the battle.

This time, however, it wasn't words that Josh flung at me. It was the Xbox controller, and it hit me square in the eye. The skin underneath my right eyebrow split and sent a thin line of blood into my eye. I could hear Abigail laughing in front of me; her snide cackle made my eardrums wince. On any normal day, I would cry; I would hide in my room and wait for Jenna to call me down again. I would retreat before the tirade.

Today, the swoop of victory in my chest was joined by something else: anger. It cut through everything—through reason, through pride, through my vision. Where my triumph swooped, my anger dove. It was a hawk circling the skies, changing course abruptly when it caught sight of some prey on the ground. It didn't matter that Josh was four years older than me and at least half a foot taller. Today, I was the peregrine and he was the sparrow.

I grunted in rage and launched myself at him, bearing down on his lanky body with flurried fists and cruel intentions. I wanted him to hurt; I wanted him to actually feel every gash that his taunts and jeers made in me. I wanted him to know that, when I tried, his offense was never as good as my defense. I was just as strong as he was, and I didn't need to hide behind any parents to prove it.

Abigail's laughter had turned to indignant shrieks then disappeared altogether. I hardly noticed. I was so busy punching Josh that I didn't realize I was hitting air until someone grabbed my fists. Jenna had lifted me, still punching, off of Josh; his face was red from fury and shame. A black circle was already beginning to form around his left eye. I smiled; at least it would match mine.

"What on _earth_ is wrong with you?" Jenna yelled. "Attacking my poor boy…oh, Josh." She turned her attention away from me, tending to Josh's face. He winced dramatically when she brushed her thumb over his cheek.

"He attacked me first! He threw his stupid game controller at my face!" I pointed to my eyebrow. "Look, I'm bleeding!"

Jenna glared at me. "It's just a scratch," she sneered. "I don't want to hear any excuses from you. Sit down on the couch and wait for me to come back."

I stamped my foot and let out a frustrated grunt, reluctantly following Jenna's instructions. She led Josh out of the room; Abigail smirked at me before following her.

I leaned my head back as far as I could without getting blood on the cushions; I knew I'd get in more trouble if I stained the brown leather. I could hear Josh and Abigail complaining in the next room; both of them were yelling that they wanted me out of the house. They'd made the demand before, but Jenna had never followed through. I knew she never would; she put too much stock in her vanity to completely throw me out. I wouldn't be opposed to the idea, though. There had to be somebody somewhere who didn't hate me on principle.

I sat up when she came back in the room; her icy stare had gotten a few degrees colder in the few minutes of separation. I glared right back, knowing that she wouldn't expect me to.

She grabbed my wrist and tugged me roughly off the couch, dragging me to the bathroom. "Sit," she commanded, pointing to the toilet. She grabbed a washcloth and wet it, scrubbing it mercilessly over my cut.

I couldn't help flinching. "Ow."

"Oh, does that hurt?" she mocked. "Am I supposed to be gentle with you, considering what you just did to my son?"

"He deserved it," I spat.

"I'm quite sure he didn't," she retorted. "Now stop talking so I can clean this up."

I clenched my jaw and sighed deliberately, expelling air slowly through my nose. It took all I had not to roll my eyes.

Jenna viciously ripped open a Band-Aid. "I don't understand you, Naomi. I don't understand why you have to be so difficult all the time. You could be living in an orphanage, you know. I didn't have to take you in."

"I wish I was. I hate living here."

She looked shocked for a millisecond; I don't think I'd ever expressed my distaste for Jenna and her family so bluntly. It was something she always hated, the fact that I never shared anything with her. The problem was she always wanted to hear nice things, and I hadn't yet thought of anything nice to say to her.

Jenna pressed the Band-Aid to my brow. "I have given you everything, Naomi. Clothes, a nice place to live, food when you need it. I've even taken charge of your education. And yet you remain ungrateful."

It was true—she did home-school me. She home-schooled all of us because she thought her children were too good for actual schools, and actual schools were too good for me. There was rarely a day when I wasn't being watched, either by Jenna or one of the other home-school parents. They were their own tribe: rich, bored, suburban mothers who scorned organized education out of fear that it might be better than anything they could provide. There were about ten of us kids in total, and we had play-dates for an hour every day. Jenna made me go, even though I wanted nothing more than to stay in my room. The other kids weren't so bad, but Abigail and Josh both made sure I didn't form any close friends, otherwise I might actually be happy.

"How can I be grateful when I'm so miserable? You're mean and your kids are worse. You don't treat me fairly."

"I don't need to treat you fairly. You're no child of mine."

"I'm still a person!"

"Don't get smart with me," Jenna warned.

"How would Uncle Robert feel if he were here? I bet he'd be nice to me."

Jenna stopped in her tracks; her hand stilled midway to throwing out the Band-Aid wrappings. "What did you say?" she hissed.

"I know he loved my mum. How do you think he'd feel if he knew you were mistreating her only daughter?"

"You don't know anything, you silly girl."

"I bet you didn't even love him."

"Stop talking."

"I bet you're the one who killed him; I bet you poisoned him one night in his sleep—"

"That's enough!" Jenna screeched. "I will not take any more insolence from you!"

"Fine, then. Send me to my room," I shot back.

Jenna paused and smiled maliciously. "Oh, no. You don't get to go back to your precious room. You're going to help me with my lessons."

I groaned. I hated helping her with school stuff; once she figured out that I was actually smarter than her children, she set me to work recording grades and copying papers. Because if I had a lot of busy work, I couldn't participate in lessons, and if I couldn't participate in lessons, then Abigail and Josh had a chance to shine.

"Stop complaining. Get up and follow me."

My shoulders sagged and my heart fell. I was a sparrow again. "Yes, Aunt Jenna," I murmured.

I followed her to her office where she gave me a massive stack of papers to put in folders. She grinned as she handed them over, whistled as she clunked down the stapler. I had to sit at the table right by the door; from my seat, I could see down the hallway to my room. My door was open and looked inviting. I sighed and frowned, wishing I could retreat to my garden, lie down in a field and close my eyes against the world. Instead, I sorted worksheets and quizzes into manila folders and tried not to fall asleep.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

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><p><strong>Remember, guesses in PMs if you feel so inclined!<br>**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, I'm officially a college graduate and I've spent the last week finishing finals, cleaning, moving out, and entertaining family, so what's the first thing I do when I have a moment to go to bed early and sleep in? I stay up late and write another chapter of this story. Such is my life. Anyway, only two people guessed the book correctly, and I can safely say that it is _not_ Harry Potter. That would be quite an undertaking. Also, for those of you hoping for an Emily-entrance, you'll have to wait a little bit longer. Maybe a lot a bit. In the meantime, enjoy another beloved character :)**

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><p>The morning after an argument was always the worst. Jenna and I had an unspoken agreement regarding my punishment for any indiscretion—she wouldn't tell me to do any chores, but if there were dishes to be washed, carpets to be vacuumed, counters to be wiped, I had better be the one doing it. It used to be that I just needed to have my room clean by the time she woke up, but after years of getting in trouble, I stopped being a naturally messy child.<p>

Instead, it was almost a daily routine to get up at 7:30 and make a sweep around the house, which is exactly what I found myself doing at the moment. I turned off my alarm quickly, remembering the time I slept through it and woke up the whole house. Dark day for Naomi Campbell, that one.

The carpet gave no relief to my tired feet; it could have been wood for how thin it was. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, plodding over to my dresser and picking up the outfit on top. Jenna didn't care what I wore, but she made sure that I had my clothes picked out the night before. She watched me put them away every night, and she would make me change if I wore anything different. It was all about control, the relationship we had. Jenna would never settle for second-best, least of all to me.

Halfway into pulling my sweater over my head, I realized something very important: Jenna only had control over me because I let her. The instinct to obey her was very strong—I wanted to wear the sweater, skirt, and headband. I wanted to peek in every room on the second floor for garbage I could pick up, straighten out picture frames on the wall of the hallway that Abigail and Josh inevitably knocked askew. It was easier to submit. In my experience, following orders and rules had at least led to a quiet life.

But the previous day's events had thrown everything out of order. Yesterday I had been loud. I had destroyed ideas of peace for the future. It would be far more dangerous to try and go back to the Naomi of old, and so I peeled my sweater off and left it crumpled on my floor. I ditched the skirt for my only comfy pair of jeans and a grungy t-shirt I had found in the park a year or two ago. It had two closed eyes and an angry mouth on the front, and I had washed it at least three times before wearing it. Jenna hated it, but she wouldn't throw it out because it was one piece of clothing that she hadn't had to buy for me. It was my favorite shirt. I plopped on my bed and set off the ensemble with a pair of bright socks; taking a deep breath, I steeled myself against the opposition I was sure would come when I left the safety of my room.

(I still picked up garbage and straightened frames. Some habits were harder to break when your heart was pounding and your hands were clammy in your pockets).

Jenna was waiting for me in the kitchen when I finally made my way downstairs. It was a chilly Monday in September; the disapproval in her eyes was only accentuated by the windows that rattled from the wind. This Monday was an angry one across the board.

"I don't remember picking out that shirt for today," Jenna said none too subtly.

"My sweater was too hot," I lied. "May I have some orange juice?"

"If you must," she replied coldly. She made no move to get it for me, so I crossed the floor to the fridge and poured myself a generous glass. While I was there, I decided to make the most of it and I grabbed the carton of eggs and the milk. Jenna watched me with menacing eyes as I hastily made myself some scrambled eggs. My face was impassive, but I moved quickly, trying to mask the fact that my hands were close to shaking.

I had no choice but to sit across from her at the table. I busied myself with eating my breakfast, keeping my eyes trained on my fork. Time didn't seem so unfriendly if I counted the seconds in bites and chews.

"Things are going to change around here, Naomi."

I flicked my eyes up to Jenna's. I was ready for her to lay down even more rules, restrictions that would make it completely impossible for me to have hope. I was about to become a glorified serf; I knew it.

"I don't want to associate with you from this point on," Jenna said instead. "I've instructed Abby and Josh not to speak with you if they can help it. You've clearly proven yourself to be a violent child, and the fewer interactions you have with my children, the better."

"What…but—what about school?" I spluttered.

Jenna picked a stray thread off her sleeve. "You will attend classes under my instruction as usual. You will complete the lessons and assignments without fuss. I will not call on you to speak. You will continue to live in this house, but you will not join my family for any activities. You will eat meals with us; any other time will be spent in your room or another area of the house. If I am in a room, you are not to be in it. If Josh and Abby want to play in a room that you're in, you will vacate the room. You will not speak to any of us unless spoken to first. Is that understood?"

I nodded silently, unable to form any words.

Jenna scooted her chair back and stood up. "Good. Consider this a goodbye." She walked past me without a sound.

"I would have loved you if you'd loved me first," I called out.

If she heard me, she never said anything. She was gone by the time I turned around.

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><p>That first day was weird, to say the least. Abigail and Josh spent the morning lessons shooting me death looks. They watched me closely, trying to find some reason to get me in trouble. When I accidentally smeared ink all over my desk, Abigail pointed and tattled loudly.<p>

"Go back to your work, Abby," Jenna instructed. "There are paper towels in the hall closet."

I heeded Jenna's hinted instruction and left the room to get paper towels and a sponge. My heart pounded with victory, but as I walked, every step bounced off the walls and echoed back with loneliness.

The rest of the morning passed in tense stillness; Jenna, Abigail, and Josh were too blatant in their attempts to ignore me. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. I didn't know how long it would last, if it even did.

The true test came with lunchtime and the recess we were allowed after it. Abigail and Josh had been known to pit the rest of the kids against me if we had been fighting. I knew that if they intended to defy their mother's instructions, this recess would be as bad as the time I had inadvertently knocked over Josh's fishbowl and killed all of his precious fish. I had returned to the house that day with scrapes and cuts from falling so many times as I ran away from a spiteful mob of seven-year-olds.

I laced up a pair of ratty Converse and grabbed a sweatshirt before rushing out the door; for once, I was eager to leave the house. The silent treatment that my aunt and cousins were giving me rang uncomfortably in my ears, noisily drowning out any other thoughts.

I didn't wait for anyone to catch up; we went to the same park every day. I knew the route like the back of my hand—turn right out the door, follow the winding road until you got to the blue house with a rock on the corner of their lawn, turn left and hop the median that separated the street from the park pathway. I never used the gate.

I kicked a rock the whole way there, wandering into the middle of the street anytime it skipped on a pebble and veered off course. It was a game I played against myself, and I deducted points every time the rock went too far left or right, gave myself points depending on the distance and smoothness of the path it took. By the time I got to the park, I had a score of 32. I took that as a bad omen; my average generally fell somewhere around 53.

I sat on a bench by the entrance to the park and watched as Abigail and Josh made their way closer. Josh had his hands shoved in his pockets, clearly unenthused. Abigail, only a year older than me, wasn't yet too old to skip, and so she did. I laughed at her ungainly canter. Jenna hung back a few steps and watched both of them, coat wrapped tightly around her.

The three of them swept past me without a second glance, and I let out a breath I wasn't even aware I'd been holding. I was safe. They wouldn't ridicule me or set the other kids against me. I might not have had friends, but I had solitude, and it was all mine.

I was free.

Buoyed by this thought, I jumped up from the bench. I wanted to do something for myself; I couldn't sit and hide forever. My eyes scanned the playground, searching for somewhere I could entertain myself without disturbing anyone else. I settled my gaze on the swings. There was a girl sitting on the one farthest to the right. I knew her name was Effy, but that was about it. The other kids avoided her, too, but it was a different kind of avoidance. They seemed to be wary of her. I think it had a lot to do with her mother—Anthea was not one to suffer any fools, and there were a lot of fools in that park (and not all of them were children).

I had stayed away from Effy because she made me nervous; her eyes were blue and far too wise for a girl of thirteen. She looked like she knew all of the secrets of the world and was constantly saddened by them.

Effy Stonem shouldered a heavy burden, and today I was going to find out exactly what it was.

I sat down on another swing, leaving one between us. It was clear that I was there to talk to her, but I knew she wouldn't like to be pushed. I started to swing slowly. It was easier to watch her that way. She wasn't an exceptional child—a little mousy, a little thin—but I couldn't seem to keep my eyes off her. She had an air of mystery that drew everyone in against their will.

"Those are different shoes than you normally wear," she said.

I skidded my feet against the woodchips, coming to a noisy stop. "Um, yeah, I guess so. My aunt doesn't usually let me wear them."

"Why did she today?"

"She didn't. I just wanted to," I answered. "Are you cold?" Effy gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "Then why does your skin look blue?"

"Maybe I'm sad," Effy shrugged.

I stood up and took off my sweatshirt. "Here," I said, handing it to her. "I don't need it."

Effy finally looked at me; her eyes were sky blue and piercing. They were amused and they challenged me. I had a sudden need to prove myself to them.

She took my sweatshirt and slipped it on slowly. She was small for her age, and the fabric seemed to engulf her. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." I kicked a patch of woodchips in the air; two of them fell onto the top of my shoe and I spent the next few minutes bouncing them off the rubber. "How come you don't play with anyone else?"

Effy smirked and looked at me. "How come you don't?"

"Because my cousins won't let me."

"That's not true anymore though," she countered.

My feet stilled, toes pointed toward the ground. "No, I guess not. How could you tell?"

"Anyone could if they looked hard enough."

I rocked to the left and knocked the swing between us against hers. "Have you been watching me?" I teased with a smile.

"Why, would it bother you if I have?" Her face was so serious, like she would be disappointed if I said yes. I crinkled my eyebrows, puzzling over the strange girl I seemed to have befriended. I'd actually managed to have a conversation with her, and I still didn't understand her any more than I had before.

I would have said no if she hadn't left.

She still had my sweatshirt.

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><p>"You need to go over to the Stonem's house." Jenna's voice startled me from my homework; true to her word, she hadn't spoken to me since breakfast.<p>

"Why?" I'd never been to any of the other kids' houses. I'd never had a reason to.

"I saw you talking to that Effy girl today. You need to get your sweatshirt back. I didn't pay for you to lend it out to other people."

I worked hard not to roll my eyes. "Yes, Aunt Jenna."

"The house key is on the table by the door. Dinner is in an hour." She turned on her heel and walked back downstairs.

I marked the page I was on in my math book and left the house, slowing to a lazy amble once I was out of sight of any windows. Effy's house was only two streets over, so I could afford to take my time. I didn't know what I was going to say when I knocked on the door; I felt like I had to offer some snippet of wisdom with the way we'd left our conversation.

I'd seen some of the other kids' houses and so I knew that Effy's was on the smaller side, but it was by no means tiny. The people inside made it seem twice as big.

The door was heavy oak; it thudded when I knocked. I expected Effy to answer, but when the door opened, it was Anthea who greeted me.

"Naomi!" she said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"

Anthea had always been nice to me on the rare occasions that we talked. She didn't yell like some of the other parents, and if she had to scold, it was always with a 'please'. But she was highly protective of Effy, and she got defensive very quickly if anyone picked on her or played with her too roughly. She was just as much of a mystery as her daughter.

"Um, hello, Mrs. Stonem," I mumbled.

A smile broke out on Anthea's face. "Please, dear, call me Anthea."

"Okay," I said hesitantly. "Well, um, I gave Effy a sweatshirt today, and I think she, er…forgot to give it back."

"Oh, of course!" She stepped back from the door and opened it wider. "Come in, dear; I'll get it for you."

"Thanks." I followed her in and stopped in front of the stairs, not quite sure what to do with myself.

She shut the door with a soft click and ushered me into the front room, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. It looked comfy, so I obliged. Anthea disappeared and came back with a pot of tea. I took the cup she offered me and sipped it quietly.

"Tell me something about you," Anthea said after a moment.

I shrugged and took another sip. "Not much to tell, really. I live with my aunt."

"Jenna, right?" I nodded. Anthea set her tea down and smiled at me. "Can I tell you a secret, Naomi? You have to promise to tell me one of yours." I nodded again, and Anthea's eyes sparkled playfully. "I've never liked your aunt much."

I offered a small smile of my own. "Me either. Does that count as my secret?"

Anthea laughed softly. "I don't think so. It's not a secret if I could have guessed it."

"Oh."

"What's the one thing you've never told anyone else?" she gently pried.

I blushed and averted my eyes. I mustered up all the courage I had and screwed my eyes tightly closed. "I want a friend more than anything in the world," I slurred, my secret a slew of sounds more than words.

Anthea smiled at me—it wasn't full of pity like I'd expected. "I think I can help you there."

A loud, painful cough sounded from upstairs and Anthea politely excused herself. I waited patiently for her to return, busying myself looking around the room. The Stonem house was cozy in spite of its size. The couches were well-used; the books on the bookshelf were tattered from one too many readings. Trinkets from Effy's childhood adorned the walls proudly, informing the world of her accomplishments.

"Well, I'm afraid Effy's not feeling too well, otherwise I'd have her give this back to you herself." Anthea was standing by the door, my sweatshirt folded neatly in her hands.

"Oh." I was a little disappointed; I'd wanted to say something meaningful to her. I didn't know why. "I can go up and see her if she wants…"

Anthea smiled sadly. "I think you'd better go for today, Naomi."

"Right." I took the sweatshirt and checked my pockets, making sure I had my key before leaving.

"Come back anytime you want to, though," Anthea added. "I think Effy could do with a friend, too."

I nodded, smiling, and left. Night was falling and it was still cold; I had twenty minutes to get back before dinner and I was going home to three rain clouds.

In spite of all of this, I felt a glimmer of sun touch my heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: There really aren't any words for how much fun I'm having writing little-Naomi and especially little-Effy. I do hope you enjoy.**

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><p>Effy truly did become my friend in the days that followed.<p>

On Tuesday, we sat on top of the monkey bars and watched the other children play. I learned that she brought a bag of chocolates to our play hour every day, and she'd always been lacking someone to share them with.

On Wednesday, when Anthea wasn't looking, we climbed up on the monkey bars again. I brought grapes. They weren't chocolates, but Effy smiled and ate them just the same.

On Thursday, she led me to her favorite tree, a scraggly, gnarly birch.

"Are we going to climb it?" I asked. I'd always wanted to climb a tree. It just wasn't very fun by yourself.

"No," she panted, out of breath from the run over. "I want to show you something." She squatted down, waddled awkwardly with bent knees until she found a rock at the base of the tree. She rolled it away from where it rested, revealing a compact hole in the ground. I watched her pull a small notebook out of the hole, and I imagined her searching the park until she found that perfect rock to hide it away. It's what I'd do.

She brushed dirt off the cover before opening it. "Pick one of the home-schooled kids."

"What?"

Effy rolled her eyes spectacularly. "Give me a name of one of the kids in our play-group."

I rolled my eyes right back. "I don't know," I stalled, pretending to think. "How about Abigail?"

Effy smirked. "Abigail it is." She flipped a few pages, the thin paper crackling viciously. She cleared her throat dramatically before reading. "'Hear me, peasant!' Queen Abigail shouted. 'The earth is flat! I will not be challenged!' She stormed away and her feet flew out from under her, as if she had tripped on a marble."

I laughed. "Do Josh."

Effy flipped a few more pages. "Joshua was a handsome boy," she read. "The girls loved him because he was so tall. Every night before going to bed, he stepped out of his pants, and they took his fake legs with them. By himself, Josh was no bigger than a toddler."

"How many of these do you have?" I asked.

"As many as I can see," Effy replied.

"Do you have stories for all of the kids?"

"Everyone has a story."

"Even me?" I grinned.

Effy's eyes were unreadable. "Everyone has a story," she repeated.

"What's mine?"

But Effy closed the book and put it back in its hole, covered it with the rock. "Not today," she simply said. "You tell too many stories at once and they start being real."

I threw a twig at the tree as I stood up. "What's wrong with that?"

* * *

><p>It was Friday that I dreaded. Friday meant the weekend; it meant two days without the promise of Effy. Normally, play-group still met on the weekends. But this weekend, a few of the families were taking a short trip to Paris. Jenna was the one organizing it, so that meant I was going to spend my weekend with kids who never spoke to me and parents who glared. I'd never been to Paris, and I'd always wanted to go, but I suddenly found myself wanting to stay in rainy England with Effy. Jenna was only taking me because she didn't trust me to stay in the house alone.<p>

"Don't be sad, Naomi. You'll be back." Effy reached into my plastic bag and pulled out a juicy red grape. Ever since we'd started sharing snacks, she'd always eaten mine first.

"I know," I grumbled, kicking an upturned root. "I just wish I didn't have to go in the first place."

"Just think of all the chocolate you can bring back from Paris," she said, trilling "Paris" in a haughty French accent.

"I kind of like mooching off you," I teased.

Effy smiled and jumped down from our now-familiar perch. (Anthea had stopped telling us to get down; nobody really played on the monkey bars anyway). She jogged over to Anthea and nodded a little too quickly when Anthea asked her a question. Effy responded with one of her own, and Anthea glanced at me before nodding as well. (Her nod was slower than her daughter's).

I could tell by how quickly she caved that Anthea wasn't used to seeing happiness shine out of Effy's eyes.

"Mum says you can spend the weekend with us," Effy said when she climbed back up.

"What about Jenna?"

"Screw Jenna and her tyranny." Effy laughed at my wide eyes. "Mum's words, not mine." The whistle signaling the end of recess sounded, and Effy jumped down. "See you for dinner tonight?"

"I don't know if I can—"

"Seven o'clock!"

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?"<p>

I shoved another shirt into my duffel bag. "Running away."

Jenna narrowed her eyes. "Naomi."

"I'm going to Effy's for the weekend. Anthea said it was okay."

Jenna's arms were crossed, her nostrils practically flaring. "Well, I'm not allowing it. You should have talked to me before asking if you could stay over."

I crossed the room and grabbed a pair of socks. "I didn't ask; Effy offered. And you would have said no anyway."

"I'm still saying no. Stop packing this instant."

I did stop, though it was only to glare at my aunt. "Do you really want me to go to Paris with you?"

Her reply was terse and frosty. "No."

(That simple word still hurt more than it should).

I resumed packing. "Right, so I'm staying with Effy this weekend. Have fun in France."

"You have a house key, I presume?"

"Have had for years."

It was a new thing of hers, disappearing without saying a word. I still didn't know how I felt about it.

* * *

><p>The walk over to Effy's was even better the second time. I was going to the Stonem house for the second time in five days not because Jenna had told me to, but because Effy had <em>asked<em> me to. For the first time in my life, I was wanted somewhere. It was this thought that planted the idiotic grin on my face; it was this thought that made my legs run so hard that my duffel bag kept slipping from my shoulders.

It was Anthea, again, who answered the door, no less cheery the second time. "Right on time!" she said with a grin. "Hope you like chicken alfredo."

I smiled sheepishly as I stepped into the house. "Never had it." Anthea looked at me like I was crazy. "Jenna insists on making healthy food. Mostly it tastes like turds."

"Ah, well you're in luck, then," Anthea drew out dramatically. "Set your bag down and come with me to a turd-less dinner." I followed her to the table where Effy was already waiting for us.

"I knew you'd come," she said with a grin. She looked more than a little relieved.

"Yeah, well, I guess you're a little better than Jenna," I teased. I sat down and Anthea set a plate in front of me. She smiled when I thanked her, and I absently wondered if this was what a family felt like.

"So, girls," Anthea said as she twirled her pasta, "tell me something you learned today."

And just like that, dinner became easy. Effy was far more animated with her mother than she was on the playground, and she did most of the talking.

I still hadn't quite grasped the idea that people actually wanted to hear what I had to say.

* * *

><p>"I like your mum."<p>

Effy's room was plain, almost to the point of being sterile. I'd puzzled over the light yellow paint at first, but after a few minutes she began to match its subtle sheen. It was a muted sun. It fit her perfectly.

"Yeah, she's nice," Effy replied as she slid into bed. I didn't have to do much scooting to accommodate her; she really was a tiny kid.

As if she'd been standing right outside Effy's room, Anthea peeked her head in through the door frame. "Everything alright, girls?" We both nodded; Effy murmured a soft yes. "Wonderful. Naomi, if you need anything, my room's just down the hall. Effy, how was today?"

A faint blush crept up Effy's cheeks. "It was fine, mum. An eight, I'd say."

"Good girl. Sleep well, you two." She parted with a smile, her steps fading softly into the carpeted hallway.

"What does that mean, an eight?" I asked.

Effy shifted onto her side, perhaps a bit harsher than necessary. "Do you want another pillow or something?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Okay. Good night." She nestled her shoulder into her pillow and closed her eyes. I sighed and mimicked her actions, pulling the covers up to cover my arms.

"Eff."

"Hm," she grunted.

"Tell me one more of your stories."

Her eyebrows constricted at the suggestion, then immediately relaxed. "There's a tree in the park that's taller in the summer than it is in the winter. People say that it's built right above the grave of the man who planted it. Every winter, it sinks into the ground a few centimeters. It's almost like he's pulling it closer to him, trying to keep it warm until it can grow on its own again."

"Which tree?"

"My tree."

I chuckled. "That's a silly story, Eff."

She furrowed her brows indignantly, still keeping her eyes closed. "Is not. The metal in the Eiffel Tower contracts and it shrinks in the winter. Why can't a tree do the same?"

"Do you want to go to Paris, too?"

"Very much."

I rolled onto my back, suddenly sleepy. "Maybe one day we'll go together."

* * *

><p>Effy woke in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking. She spilled the glass of water I brought her, so I got Anthea instead. She looked like she hadn't slept at all.<p>

I helped her change the sheets when Effy calmed down. Effy sacked out the moment her head hit the pillow. She looked smaller than ever.

It was a long time after Anthea left before I fell asleep again.

* * *

><p>For as long as I can remember, my dreams have always been sort of prophetic. I dreamt I was rich the night before I found a twenty pound note on the street, and the night before Abigail's hamster died, I dreamt I was a back-alley trader selling mice as bait to cat catchers. I made the mistake of telling Abigail, and she branded me as a witch to Jenna. Jenna didn't punish me outright, but she went out and bought Abigail another hamster that day and brought it home with the clear instruction that I was to go nowhere near it.<p>

My sleep had been dream-free before Effy woke up, but it was stilted and choppy afterward. I dreamt Effy and I were in Italy, climbing the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was a beautiful day, and all Effy wanted to do was to look out of the windows at the top, but she would sink through the stairs if she tried to go higher than halfway. I always walked down with her each time she was stopped. We made our way to a bench across the pathway, and I hugged her as we sat down. The sun was bright, and I closed my eyes to bask in its warmth.

When I opened my eyes again, she was always gone.

The tower always crumbled when I called out her name. Somewhere in between the pang of fear I felt at losing Effy and the crash the stones made, I fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey, an update! This one was really fun to write...more tiny-Effy and Naomi! Always fun. Also, the zoo that they go to is loosely based on the Bristol zoo. However, having never been there, it's about 90% shit I learned from the Internet and 10% imagination. (Also also, someone please take me to the Bristol zoo. It sounds magical). Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"I'm only saying, love, last night was a rough one. Are you sure you still want to go out today?"<p>

"I'm fine, Mum," Effy said tersely. A cup clanked roughly on the counter. "I can handle myself. It's not like this hasn't happened before."

I had woken up around nine thirty to find Effy's room empty. _Sorry about last night_, a note on the bedside table said. Effy's pajamas were piled up by her closet; I saw the discarded sheets peeking out from behind the door. I had immediately gone to change into my clothes, but then I remembered that I wasn't at Jenna's house. Anthea and Effy made me comfortable, and I wasn't going to ruin that comfort with a fresh skirt. Instead, I tiptoed down the stairs in my pajama pants that didn't quite reach my ankles. I'd been on the verge of calling out when I'd heard the voices arguing softly.

"Effy, just because it's happened before doesn't mean you can't rest now."

"I don't want to rest. I want to spend the day with Naomi. Like a normal girl."

I could almost hear Anthea's protests. She didn't voice them. I knew if she had, Effy would have given in.

"Please, Mum," Effy implored. "I just want to be a friend."

I snuck back upstairs after I heard the quiet kiss Effy placed on her mother's cheek. (Growing up with Jenna had lightened my steps). I got dressed swiftly and without fuss, my face a blank slate. With one final check in the mirror, I headed downstairs and greeted the two women in the kitchen with a smile.

Out of the three of us, I certainly wasn't the best at pretending I was happy. But that didn't mean I couldn't try my hardest.

* * *

><p>True to her word, Anthea treated us both like normal girls who were simply out for a normal trip around our painfully normal town. She'd made breakfast for both of us and stopped me when I'd gotten up to wash the dishes. Effy had grabbed my wrist and dragged me upstairs again. She took me on a tour of her room, sparse as it was—the small words she'd carved into the wall of her closet. <em>Effy, a girl of eleven<em>. ("So I'll never be forgotten," she'd said). The rusty tin container she'd found sticking out of a trash can. _Warning!_ it announced in garish comic-book letters. _May contain ideas_. And it did—there were pictures of sunny beaches in Australia, snowy mountains in Nepal, a massive tomato fight in Spain. There was a small, corked bottle filled with a viscous, purple liquid. I asked Effy if she knew what it was.

"Nope. Never tried to find out, either. I don't want to ruin it."

She pointed out the pen collection she kept on her desk. There were wooden pens, oversized pens, pens that could write upside down and underwater. "They know everything," she'd told me, and I wanted this girl to explain everything to me. I wanted her to write me her world because it wasn't the same as mine. I wanted to ask her what she saw when she saw the clouds, what she felt when she touched a leaf, what she heard when a bird sang. I wanted to know what her sharp blue eyes caught that mine missed.

(Before I could find out, Anthea said it was time to go).

She had given us the choice of the museum or the zoo. Effy and I had immediately looked eagerly at each other.

"Both it is, then," Anthea said, emitting a noise that was somewhere in between a chuckle and a sigh.

And so it was that we found ourselves perusing an exhibit on Pompeii. I had wanted to look at the dinosaurs first, but Effy had insisted that we learn about the ruined city. I watched her more than the artifacts; she was looking over informational plaques and plaster casts with a forlorn expression.

"Sad, isn't it?" she whispered to me in that hushed and reverent tone one immediately adopts in museums and libraries. "Twenty four hours and an entire city is wiped out."

"It wasn't though," I replied.

Effy furrowed her brows. "Haven't you been reading these little stands? Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't," I repeated. "Look at all the plaster casts. Almost two thousand years later and these people are still here."

Effy smiled. "Are you going to be this existential with the dinosaurs?"

I grinned playfully. "What, those old bones?"

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you still want to go to the zoo, girls?"<p>

Effy swallowed her bite of sandwich and gave her mother an impatient glare. "Yes, Mum. I like museums but I like the sun even more."

"Really, I would understand if you wanted to go home, Effy."

"I like the sun," Effy repeated.

"We don't have to go," I interjected, eager to quell some of the tension. "Really, the museum was more than enough, Anthea."

Anthea smiled gratefully at me and glanced pointedly at Effy.

Effy simply smirked. "Have you ever been to the zoo, Naomi?" she asked, crunching deliberately into her grilled cheese.

"Well, no," I admitted reluctantly. "But I can go some other time; it's okay."

Effy bared her teeth in a wide, smug grin and waited.

Anthea rolled her eyes. She had never seemed so much like Effy's mother. "Alright, alright. Naomi, finish your lunch. We're going to the fucking zoo."

When I looked over at Effy, she winked.

* * *

><p>The zoo was perfect. By noon, the day had turned unseasonably warm, and Effy and I laughed as we navigated around the various habitats. <em>'You are entering a free-flying bat enclosure,'<em> a sign warned us. _'Do not stand directly under the bats, as they may go to the toilet without warning!' _Effy and I went in anyway and she stood under the bats, arms spread wide.

At the reptile house, Anthea nodded smartly to us and began a ten-minute lecture on the importance of conservation. Effy disappeared to look at the Gila monsters, but I stayed.

The lion cubs weren't outside when we got there, but their parents were beautiful and majestic.

One of the hippos spent ten minutes flicking his ears and spitting water. Effy and I took turns gathering a mouthful of water from the nearest fountain and spitting it at each other. We ignored the disapproving looks.

I closed my eyes and listened to the fluttering of the butterfly forest. A glasswing butterfly landed on my nose and I could see right through its wings. It painted the world in burned reds and oranges, turning flowers and trees into stained-glass mosaics.

The butterfly whisked away when Effy grabbed my hand. Her eyes looked tired. "Come on, there's one more place I want to show you." She threaded me through the crowd, scanning for Anthea. "Mum!" she cried out when we got close, waving conspicuously. "Mum!"

Anthea turned at Effy's second yell. "About ready to pack it in?"

Effy shook her head quickly. "One more place, please? I have to show Naomi."

Anthea frowned, then relented. "Fine. One more place, no more than ten minutes. Meet me back at the entrance?" Effy nodded. "Alright, go have fun. Don't run!" she yelled. We were already almost out of earshot.

"Where are we going?" I asked, huffing slightly.

Effy turned around and smiled mischievously. "Twilight World."

She led me to a dimly-lit indoor exhibit, down a gradually-sloping pathway until we were looking at a desert habitat, separated by a short rope fence. 'Sunset', a sign on the wall said (though the faint orange glow of the lights was more than a clue for me).

Something skittered across the sand and I scooted closer to Effy out of instinct. It peered out from behind a log with eyes that lit up only when the sun disappeared.

I curled my nose up. "Urgh, what is that? It's creepy."

"It's a mongoose," Effy said, amused. "Did you know that in India, there are street fights between mongooses and snakes?"

"Really?"

Effy nodded and bent down, getting on eye level with the mongoose. "Yeah, they're impervious to snake venom or something. Mum used to travel a lot; she tells me stories sometimes."

I looked from the mongoose to her, trying to see what she saw. "It's still really creepy," I concluded.

Effy straightened and rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "Alright, you wuss. Let's keep going."

The pathway twisted and turned, edging further into increasing darkness. 'Night' was next, the second sign announced, and I could barely see my hand in front of my face by the time we got to the forest.

"I can't see anything, Eff," I whispered.

"I know; isn't it great?" she whispered back. "Keep your eyes on that tree over there."

I huffed. "Eff, I just told you..."

"The one on the right with the gnarly branch. I know you can see it."

I actually could, but I wasn't about to tell her that. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it," she simply said.

I waited and watched; the tree seemed to move in the dark. The bark crawled and slithered in the shadows, dripping fuzzy particles of black onto the ground. Everything was wispy and ill-formed—I couldn't be sure where the grass stopped and the tree started. Effy's eyes had adjusted where mine had not; I abandoned the tree for a split second to look at her. Her blue eyes twinkled with an air of familiarity.

"Look, look!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Do you see it?"

I shifted my gaze back to the tree, squinting as I tried to make sense of the darkness. After a few moments, I found a pair of beady red eyes staring back at me.

"Jesus, Eff, how do you always find the creepiest animals?"

"It's an aye aye," she murmured. "They're really rare—almost extinct. Look at how it's eating…come on, don't tell me that's not cool!"

I narrowed my eyes and tried to find its limbs. "What is it doing?"

"It's tapping the tree to find grubs."

I scrunched my nose. "Grubs?"

"Yeah," Effy nodded absently. "You know, like larva and stuff? Anyway, in a minute it'll gnaw at the tree and then dig the grubs out with its finger. Cool, right?"

She was turned away from me, but I looked at her quizzically anyway. "Just how much time do you spend here?"

"It's my favorite place." She heaved a sigh and squared her shoulders, then turned around to face me. Her eyes were practically sparkling. "Come on, or we'll miss the naked mole rats."

"There are _rats_ in this zoo?"

* * *

><p>The sun was quickly fading by the time we left Twilight World, but my eyes still needed time to adjust.<p>

"Well, that was…fun," I said. It wasn't the right word, but it would do.

"Not bad for your first trip to the zoo, eh?"

I cracked a smile. "No, I guess not. It was almost perfect."

Effy stopped walking next to me. "_Almost_ perfect?"

"Yeah," I grinned. "You know, you got to show off everything you know about all the animals and stuff. But I haven't gotten to show off anything."

"Oh, really?" Effy challenged, crossing her arms. "And what exactly would you show off, then?"

"I bet I can beat you back to your mum," I posed.

Effy narrowed her eyes. "No way. I'm older."

"So what?" I scoffed. "My legs are longer."

"I'm faster."

"Are not."

"Am too."

"Prove it!"

Effy waited just one more moment. She quirked an eyebrow, and before I could get a jump on her, she was off and running. She hadn't been lying—she was fast. I sprinted to catch up, my feet pounding on the pavement. Suddenly, we were near the entrance and Anthea was in sight, and I smiled as I pulled up next to Effy.

I hadn't been lying, either. My legs were longer, and I pushed forward with a final burst of speed, making it to Anthea just a moment before Effy.

"Told you!" I panted triumphantly. "Ha, now it really has been the perfect day." I bent down and rested my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

"I told you not to run!" Anthea hissed tersely. I looked up to find her walking briskly over to Effy, who was also huffing and wheezing. Effy waved Anthea off with a hand; I could tell she didn't mean it. She wrapped her arm around Anthea's waist and they both walked back to me.

Fear of being in trouble had returned my breath to me quicker than rest would have. "Anthea, I…"

"When I say don't run, I mean don't run," she chided.

A blush crept up my cheeks and I hung my head. "I'm sorry," I muttered. I meant it.

Anthea lifted my chin. The smile was back on her face. "It's alright, Naomi. Just…now you know for next time. Okay?" I nodded. "Okay," she said, patting my cheek gently.

We left the zoo and got in the car without another word. Effy sat in the front seat with Anthea; I watched through the sideview mirror as she leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes.

(When she snaked her hand through the gap between her seat and the side of the car, I found her fingers and threaded them through mine. I held her hand the whole way home).

* * *

><p>Both Effy and I were exhausted by the time we finished dinner. We said goodnight to Anthea and climbed into bed again. I took the side closest to the door just in case.<p>

"Sorry about my mum," Effy mumbled.

"It's okay," I replied. "She's just worried."

"Yeah," Effy said, looking down.

"Eff?"

"Hm?"

"Why is she worried?"

Effy flicked her eyes quickly up to mine; it wasn't hard to see the fear bubbling in them. "I have…I have a heart condition. I just can't do stuff the same way other kids can."

"Oh." I wasn't sure what to say. "Well, it's okay. I don't really want to do most of the stuff other kids do." I gave her what I hoped was my most genuine smile.

She graced me with a small smile of her own. "Thanks, Naomi."

"You're okay though, right?"

She closed her eyes and wriggled under the covers. "Did you have fun this weekend?"

I sighed and closed my eyes, too. "Yeah."

"Better than Paris?"

"Paris? What's that?"

"Goodnight, Naomi."


	5. Chapter 5

September bled into October, and Effy and I ran with less frequency. By the time November came, with its harsh winds and unforgiving rains, we'd stopped altogether.

Now that I knew about Effy's condition, it wasn't hard to see that she was sick. She got short of breath easily; she had a cough more often than not. I wasn't tan by any means, but she made me look like Snooki. I started to worry about her. Jenna still oversaw my lessons and made me sleep at the house, but every meal and recess I could manage, I was at Effy's. I watched her like a hawk for three days. I wanted to run off to Anthea any time she so much as sneezed.

"Naomi, stop it," she blurted one day, finally fed up. "I've made it 13 years without your concern; I think I can handle a few more weeks."

"I'm just worried, Eff."

"Don't be. I'm fine."

I scowled and blushed at the same time. "I thought that was what friends did for each other," I said petulantly.

"It's also what mothers do," Effy shot back, "and I've already got one of those."

And that was the end of that.

When I stayed over on weekends, I usually helped Anthea make breakfast. My first stay at the Stonem house seemed to be a bit of a fluke—Effy generally slept later than I did. It was nice; Anthea taught me how to make pancakes and French toast. I poured coffee for her on mornings when her smile cracked and her fingers shook. When she scolded me a little too harshly, I let it go. I would never be as worried as she was.

"It's 10:30; why don't you go and wake Effy up?"

"It's actually only 10:28. She'll be up in two minutes."

"She could be awake now if you would go upstairs."

"But then who would wash all these dishes?"

"I would—you keep missing spots."

"Fine, we'll switch and I'll dry. Scoot over."

Anthea stiffened when I tried to push past her. "Nice try." I couldn't help smiling.

"You two sound like an old, married couple." Both Anthea and I jumped at the sound of Effy's voice. The girl could probably walk on water she was so light with her feet.

"Ah, you've caught us," I teased. "Now go sit at the table and let your parents serve you breakfast!"

Effy gave a small shudder, though I couldn't be sure if it was from disgust or the cold. She sat down anyway.

I set a plate of French toast in front of her; she glopped syrup onto it and cut a massive piece off with her fork. "Tastes good," she said, smacking her lips a little bit. "Who made it?"

"I did," I answered.

Effy smirked and took another bite. "You forgot the powdered sugar," she winked.

"You seem to be eating it all the same."

Anthea sat down across from Effy, consuming her coffee faster than her breakfast. "How was last night, love?"

"Solid," Effy said between bites. "6 or a 7 I'd say."

Anthea looked at me surreptitiously, and I shook my head. _Four_, I mouthed.

Effy and Anthea had developed a system over the years that gauged Effy's health. When Effy had gotten tired of answering the same tired questions, she'd stopped talking for six months. Out of fear and desperation, Anthea had instituted a "On a scale of one to ten…" line of questioning as a compromise. Ten was the best. I'd never witnessed anything above an eight. I _had_ been there for a two. I slept alone that night and worried about my best friend cooped up behind Anthea's door.

(Effy hadn't told me any of this, of course. I learned everything when I stumbled upon Anthea one night in the kitchen. She looked far too sober for someone clutching a half-empty bottle of rum. I'd have been happy to forget it ever happened, but she had things to say. Making up for Effy, I suppose).

Anthea was careful not let Effy know that I was secretly reporting to her. "Well, it seems like a perfect day to be lazy, doesn't it?"

I sat down in between both of them and smiled. "Yeah, that sounds nice. Fancy some board games, Eff?"

Effy put her fork down and winked. "You'll never beat me at checkers," she sneered.

I walked to the living room and took the game out from its place in the cabinet. "I'll win some day," I said as I sat back down.

(Today was not that day).

* * *

><p>I hated Sundays the most because they meant I had to go back to Jenna's. She tolerated me spending so much time at Effy's house—it was, after all, time that she didn't even have to think about me (not that she ever did anyway).<p>

What she did not tolerate, however, was losing all control over me. And so, every Sunday night at 7:30, I was back at the Miller household for another atrocious dinner. And every Sunday night at 8:00, I was back in my room, and I would open my duffel bag and eat the dinner Anthea had packed. I would sit on the floor, let my mind wander, and eat in a different corner of the world.

Today, it was pesto with chicken on the beach. I closed my eyes and I could feel the sun on my face, the soft spray of water on my cheeks. There were gulls calling off to my right; on my left, children laughed as they built sand castles. A dog barked somewhere. I pushed my toes under the sand and inhaled deeply.

"What are you doing, you freak?"

(On the horizon, Hurricane Abigail loomed).

I set down my Tupperware of pasta and turned around. "What do you care?"

Abigail shrugged. "I'm bored." She walked into my room and closed the door, sitting on my bed without an invitation. She frowned when it didn't bounce.

"What do you want, Abigail?"

"I don't know." She swung her legs against the bed frame. "What are you eating?"

My heart began to beat faster—I hadn't thought to hide my dinner. I knew that if I made Abigail mad, she'd get me in trouble simply for eating food that Jenna hadn't cooked. "Er, some pesto and chicken," I said cautiously. "Anthea made it."

"Can I have a bite?"

"Um, sure." I passed her the dish and watched as she speared the biggest piece of chicken with the fork.

"Why do you hang out with Effy all the time?" Abigail asked, spitting the words as if they were too toxic to stay in her mouth.

"She's nice to me. She's my best friend."

Abigail scrunched her nose and took another bite. I got the feeling that I'd eaten all of the dinner I was going to get. "She's weird."

"No, she's not," I answered heatedly. "She's just different. She's _not_ weird."

"Are you, like, in love with her or something?" Abigail sneered.

"No."

"You know, this is really good. Mum should get the recipe from Anita, or whatever her name is."

I bristled. "It's Anthea."

"Whatever. She makes good pasta."

"Yes, she does." I held out my hand. "And she made it for me, so if you don't mind, I'd like to eat the rest of it."

Abigail rolled her eyes and huffed. "I was just trying to be nice, but sure, have your pasta back." She stood up and brushed off her skirt. She walked toward me like she was going to return my food, but at the last second, she let it drop onto the floor. "Oops," she grinned.

I took deep breaths, trying to contain my anger. "This is why I spend time with Effy, Abigail. She doesn't make me feel like I'm worthless."

"She should. You _are_ worthless. You don't even have parents." She crossed her arms triumphantly.

"If I did, at least they'd love me," I retorted.

Abigail's eyes hardened and she set her jaw. She smirked at me once—a threat—and I knew I was done for. "Mum!" she roared.

"What is it, sweetie?" Jenna called back.

"Come here. Naomi's done something!"

I closed my eyes and listened as Jenna got closer to my room. The ocean was drying up—it was drought season.

"What are you doing in her room, Abby? And why is the door closed? You know I always want it open."

"Naomi closed it."

"Did not! Abigail did."

Jenna glared at me. "Oh, I'm sure she did." She finally noticed the food on the floor. "What's this mess?"

"Naomi was sneaking food from Effy's house," Abigail tattled. "I asked her for one bite and she threw it on the floor instead."

Jenna sighed. No one moved. "Abby, go downstairs, please. I want to talk to Naomi alone."

(Abigail practically skipped out of the room. I'd never wanted to trip her more).

Jenna jerked her head in the direction of the hall closet. "Get the broom. Sweep this mess up."

I swept the floor wordlessly and without so much as a glance at her. I emptied the dustpan into the bathroom garbage, taking as much time as I could afford to put the broom back in its place.

"Sit down on the bed," Jenna instructed once I came back to my room. "I don't know why you constantly have to disrespect my children, Naomi," she said once I'd settled down. "They do nothing to hurt you. They've barely paid you any attention these past few months."

If Jenna were even a smidge sympathetic, she'd have seen the irony in her last two sentences. But she wasn't, and I wasn't in a mood to change her. I doubted I'd ever be successful anyway.

"You know, I've thought about giving you up." My eyes flicked to hers—that was the most genuine thing I'd ever heard her say, even if it was awful. "Everyone would understand if I put you in an orphanage or a boarding school; even the best of us can't always deal with troubled children."

"I'm not a troubled child," I immediately protested. "And anyway, I wouldn't need to go to an orphanage. I'd just go live with Effy."

Jenna smiled patronizingly. "Oh, Naomi, do you honestly think Anthea would let you? All that excitement of having a friend live at her house—Effy's poor heart couldn't take it." She saw the twitch of fear in my eyebrows. She couldn't know about Effy's condition; that was _my_ secret. It was just for me and Anthea. Jenna couldn't take that, too. "Yes, Naomi, I know. So it's purely for Effy's own good that I can't let you leave this house."

"But…"

"Oh, don't worry," Jenna reassured me. I still worried. "You can still play with her at recess and on weekends. But as long as you do, you'll live with me. It's time you learned some discipline, Naomi. It's time you learned how to listen, and I'm going to be the one to teach you."

"As soon as I can, I'm leaving this place and you'll never see me again." I hadn't ever truly hated Jenna before. I did now.

"And until you do," Jenna replied, her eyes just as cold as mine, "you're stuck with me."

"I could say the same to you." I didn't dare back down. "And I've got Effy—who have you got, Abigail and Josh?" I scoffed.

"Friendships don't always last, Naomi. Family is forever." Jenna's smile was entirely too smug for my comfort.

She left me with an angry heart and a carpet that smelled of happiness I was never allowed to have.

* * *

><p>For the past week, Effy had been in my dreams; each successive night, she got dimmer—more transparent. Tonight she was nothing more than flashes and memories.<p>

And so when the phone rang at three in the morning, I didn't have to answer it. I knew.

Jenna was right.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, I'm going to Europe for three weeks. That means that until July 5th, you will be without an update. What goes better with an extended absence than a cliffhanger? :) Review if you enjoyed (and especially if you didn't).**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Well, hi! I'm back! Europe was pretty awesome and crazy busy, but I did manage to find enough downtime to get this one out. Never say that I'm not obsessed. I am, however, very tired and my internal clock is all messed up, which is why I'm awake at 8:30 in the morning after a good 20 hours of travel. Of course I had to immediately post this. Dedication. Enjoy its fruits, my friends.**

* * *

><p>I spent the next few weeks doing a lot of wishing. I wished for Jenna to stop being so happy; I wished for Effy to get better; I wished for Anthea to stop being so sad. I would have prayed but I'd never believed in God. I liked the idea of being completely responsible for my own life, and Effy had given me a taste of that, not any higher power. More than anything I wished for the chance to repay the favor.<p>

Effy spent a lot of time in the hospital, fighting off infections and pneumonia. I visited when I could, which was usually when Jenna couldn't come up with any more excuses not to drive me. She may not have liked me, but she wasn't heartless. It was only for an hour at a time, but it was enough. Effy was always glad to see me. I was glad to see her alive.

Weak as she was, Effy always greeted me warmly. Anthea, however, was struggling. As Effy got friendlier, Anthea became more distant. She put on a brave face for her daughter but I saw the suggestion of tears in her eyes and the quavering lips. She rarely smiled for me anymore.

Rain had plagued us for most of November, something I'd actually liked. It didn't seem right for the weather to be nice when Effy was confined to a hospital bed. So when, on the last Saturday of the month, the sun tried to peek out from behind the clouds, I felt uneasy. It was an oddly familiar color, one that I couldn't quite place, and I kept willing it back into hiding.

Visiting hours were more relaxed on weekends, and so at noon Jenna dropped me off at the hospital with the instruction that I was to be ready to leave at six. While I spent the day with my sick friend, Jenna would be taking advantage of an afternoon free of me. She was going shopping.

Anthea wasn't in the room when I arrived, but Effy was there with a welcoming smile (and tired eyes) as usual.

"Mum went to get lunch. Have you eaten?"

I sat down next to her bed. "Stop worrying about me. How are you feeling today?"

"Fine."

"Just fine? What number are you at?"

Effy shook her head. "Not on the chart."

"An uncharted day? Is that even possible?"

She shrugged. "Apparently."

"Right." I'd learned it was best not to question Effy; she was usually right. "Well, checkers then?"

Effy smiled crookedly. "Glutton for punishment, eh, Naomi?"

"Just optimistic. Are you backing down?"

"Never."

* * *

><p>"Hey, I win!" I threw my hands in the air, feeling genuinely victorious. It had taken a dozen games today and at least two hundred previous ones, but I had finally beat Effy at checkers. "Not such a champion now, are you?" I joked. When Effy didn't answer, I looked up—her eyes were closed. I rolled mine; of course the one time I win is the one time she falls asleep.<p>

"I'm not asleep," she said quietly.

I looked down at my watch—it was only a few minutes after four. She usually lasted longer than this. "Do you want me to go?"

"No. Lie with me." She scooted over in her bed to make room for me. I hesitated—the nurses liked me but there were still rules. "It's fine," she said, noticing my reluctance. "I'm not contagious. If they kick you out, so what?"

The bed was smaller than the one at Effy's house and it was a tight fit, but it was nice to be close to her. I took comfort in the warmth of her body, the fact that she wasn't an invalid and could actually still move of her own accord. Even though she was the realest thing I knew, it was easy to depersonalize her when she spent so much time in a hospital bed. When touching became taboo, she melded into the machines that charted her life in beeps and clicks. Today, as she rested in the crook of my arm, the metal gave way to hearts and fingers and skin.

Effy shifted next to me, her forehead close to my shoulder. "I'm glad you're here, Naomi."

"Where else would I be?"

She nudged me playfully. "I mean it."

I nudged her back. "So do I." I looked down and smiled so she knew I was sincere. I'd always seen something familiar in her blue eyes, though they were older than mine by far more than the year that separated us. I wondered if every time I looked in her eyes, I was actually looking into the future. I wouldn't mind being so wise. But I liked wishing too much to be that sad. It took a certain person to lead Effy's life, and I wasn't her.

I hadn't realized I'd been staring in silence until Effy moved and broke my gaze. She looked at me again and her eyes were shy and timid, a look I'd never seen from her before. When she kissed me, lips pressing against mine softly, chastely, and without any intentions, I could do nothing but lie there surprised.

"What was that for?" I asked when she pulled away.

"I've never been kissed before," she said, blushing slightly.

"Oh." I didn't know what to say beyond that. "Me either. Am I meant to say thank you now, or…?"

Effy shrugged. "How would I know? Do you want to say thank you?"

"Someone should say something." When Effy offered up nothing, I took my cue. "Alright, well, thank you for kissing me. It was nice." I cleared my throat. "And thank you for being my friend."

I could almost feel Effy smirk. "What, I'm not your _best_ friend?"

I hoped she wasn't looking, otherwise she'd see my face flush. "More than," I corrected.

"Oh, well in that case, you're welcome." Her words came slower, heavy with fatigue. "I love you, Naoms," she slurred.

She knew it even though the words never left my mouth, but to this day I wish I'd said it back.

* * *

><p>When two hands pulled me gently from the bed, Effy could have been sleeping. But for the faint, unchanging drone of the heart monitor, I would have thought she was.<p>

It wasn't until a few years later that I realized why the sun had looked so familiar. It was the same color as Effy's walls. Effy had known it was her day, probably from the moment she woke up for the last time.

(It took me six years and a glimpse into the future to figure it out).

.

.

The rest of the day passed in bits and flashes.

Someone bundled me into a car and strapped me in.

A cool thumb brushed tears from my cheek that I didn't even remember crying.

The car moved.

"You're home, Naomi." It wasn't until she spoke that I realized it had been Jenna all along, and she'd brought me to Anthea's house.

The sun still wouldn't hide.

.

.

The faded yellow of Effy's room seemed dimmer without her in it. Jenna drove away after she deposited me at Anthea's and I was left to wander in a house filled with memories of Effy. I couldn't stay downstairs so I made my way to her room; ironically, it was the only place without a picture of her. I didn't want to face her eyes. I did that enough when I looked in the mirror.

Instead, she watched me through the light above her bed; her stuffed giraffe laughed at me, arms splayed wide on the pillow. I opened up her drawer and pulled out her tin. I touched all of the mementos, trying to channel Effy. I wondered what made each item so special—what did she really have to say about the purple goo; what did she find attractive about the ugly wooden doll? There were stories behind every single one, and I only wished I'd had a chance to hear them all.

(If I'd tried to write them, every word would tell you how much I missed my only friend).

I pulled Effy's covers over my head that night and hid from her walls. I've never slept better in my life.

* * *

><p>The funeral was quiet but well-attended; everyone from the home school group showed up. Their eyes faced forward and their ears heard the speeches, but the only two people who cared at all sat in the front row and didn't listen.<p>

I found Anthea smoking outside on a bench after the service. There were new lines on her forehead; her fingers were more prone to shaking. Her back was stiff as a board, feet flat on the ground. She smiled weakly when I sat next to her.

"I've been waiting for this day since she was born," she offered. It was only then I noticed the bottle of alcohol under her feet, drained of most of its contents. "She was diagnosed with Ebstein's Anomaly when she was three days old. She was this puny thing, bundled up in the NICU, and the doctor came and told me the right side of her heart was extremely weak. I looked at him and I told him he was wrong—my Effy was anything but weak. She was energy, a small sun, and it was frightening and wonderful to behold. He said she wouldn't ever be able to exert herself like other kids, and the life expectancy wasn't so good, but it would be manageable. I looked down at my tiny baby and I knew she wasn't going to _manage_. She was going to burn.

She had a heart transplant four months ago. It was all luck and miracles, a big game for both of us. The day after she moved up on the list, some poor teenager died in a car crash and her parents consented to donate her organs. It all happened so quickly that I couldn't quite believe it would work. It was all flickers, this big bonfire, this giant firework that had exploded into my life without any apologies or warning. I guess even fires die when you run out of fuel."

"It did work."

"Not for long enough." She reached for her liquor and finished it off with one swig. "Come on; we've got a reception to set up."

As Effy was the first person I'd known to die I didn't really know what to expect, but nothing seemed to create a party quite like a funeral. People filled every corner of Anthea's house and what wasn't crawling with bodies was piled with food. So much food and no one seemed to be eating.

Instead, they were talking, somberly nodding their heads (as if that made a difference). Some laughed. They all had words to say, words that proved they knew Effy or were her friends. _You don't know anything,_ I wanted to say. _You didn't read her stories_.

Adults filed past Anthea and offered her small words of comfort, squeezed her shoulder almost mechanically. Some of the kids did the same for me. Abigail looked like she wanted to say something but Josh pushed her onward.

When Anthea sat down in her armchair, away from everyone else, I knew I had fulfilled my duty to stay. So I ran. I ran for me, but mostly I ran for Effy. I ran twice as hard because I knew she never could, and within minutes I was at her tree. I thought of the man she said was buried underneath, and my heart jumped into my throat.

_Hug _me_, Effy,_ I thought. _Hug me closer just one last time._

But the ground didn't move so I tore at it with my hands until I found her book. I ran with it back to the house and carried it up to her room.

I expected there to be one story about me. There were at least a dozen.

_Naomi was a changeling, neither human nor immortal. There was something enduring about her, but it was so faint that they doomed it to an early grave._

_She was a superhero, only her powers were a secret even to her. She spent most of her life in silence. But if she shouted, the world would listen._

_Naomi screamed and the world fell to its feet_.

I closed the book and rummaged around in Effy's desk, feeling in her drawer until I found a pair of scissors. When my fingers closed on the blade, I dropped to my knees in Effy's closet, feeling again until I ran into the bumps of her carving.

_Effy, a girl of eleven_, it said. Scratched two years earlier. Perhaps she'd known that sooner was better if she wanted to live forever. Her body would disappear, but her words were there as long as the house was. I vowed to make my memories of her last even longer.

But just in case, just in case her house was the one to outlive all the others, I left my own mark.

_Effy, a girl of eleven_, the wall neatly proclaimed. I scratched my own coarse scribble underneath it.

_Naomi, her best friend_.


	7. Part Two: Anthea

**I blame everything on Harry Potter and Hawke. You can too, if you want. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>"<em>The increased intimacy of adolescent friendship reflects cognitive as well as emotional development. Adolescents are now better able to express their private thoughts and feelings. They can more readily consider another person's point of view, and so it is easier for them to understand a friend's thoughts and feelings. Increased intimacy reflects early adolescents' concern with getting to know themselves. Confiding in a friend helps young people explore their own feelings, define their identity, and validate their self-worth<em>."

An alarm sounded next to my cheek, and I started with a grunt from my place at Effy's desk. I clamped my mouth open and shut, trying to rid it of its dry texture. It felt like I'd swallowed an entire bag of cotton balls. My neck was sore; I craned it in a circle, wincing at every crack. I stretched my arms above my head and waited for my fingers to stop tingling, rolling my eyes as the alarm went off again.

"I heard you the first time," I snapped, turning it off with a whack of my hand. It blinked the time at me and I begrudgingly got up, grabbing two aspirin tablets on my way to the other bedroom.

"Seven o'clock, Anthea," I called softly as I knocked on her door. "It's dinner time. I've made you some soup tonight." When there was no answer, I pushed the door open. It was long past the time for me to observe any manners. Anthea was curled on her side, covers engulfing every part of her but her face. The bed didn't even move to indicate that she was breathing. I knew she was.

I pulled the comforter gingerly from her body and sat her up. "You need to eat, Anthea."

"I'll eat if she does."

"She's not eating with us tonight, Anthea."

Anthea petulantly dove under the covers again before I could catch her. "Well, I'm not eating with you."

"Fine. I won't eat. But you have to." Silence. "Chicken soup was Effy's favorite." I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.

She was down at the table two minutes later.

I served her a bowl of soup. She picked up the spoon, smiled at me, and ate the whole thing.

.

.

The psychology textbook was the closest thing to grief counseling I was going to find in the house. Anthea might have supported her daughter, but a brief scan of her bookcase told me she'd never made any effort to understand Effy's condition. She didn't want to know about it; she wanted Effy to live in spite of it. I thought that was extremely careless.

But that was the problem exactly—Anthea's downfall was that, when pushed to her limits, she could be extremely careless. Effy's death hadn't just pushed her limits; it had destroyed them.

And so we switched roles. I never once went back to Jenna's house; two days after Effy's funeral, a box showed up on Anthea's doorstep. It had all of my things in it with a note: "You'll need these." For Jenna, that was sentimental, and it confused me. Rather than focus on the confusion, however, I cleared Effy's room of all her clothes and moved in. In between feeding Anthea and making sure that she didn't forget to live, I read books. I picked up exactly where Jenna had left off her math lessons; I learned a thing or two about civil rights; I even tried my hand at writing.

And every four hours I would punch the alarm clock on Effy's desk, walk down the hall, and play parent to a gin-soaked woman who wasn't even my mother.

.

.

"Come on, Anthea. Breakfast time." She sat up in bed by herself this morning, a marked improvement. "Here, change your shirt; you've sweated through the other one." Purple replaced red, but with such disinterest that it made my heart skip a beat.

"I made you pancakes this morning."

"Chocolate chip ones."

"They were Effy's favorite."

Every part of me wanted to be better than playing a trump card.

.

.

I'd seen inklings of what Anthea had turned into—before, I mean; I'd seen them before—so I shouldn't be surprised by the broken woman at the table. And yet I was. I was surprised how devastated she was. I was surprised that I could at least pretend for her. I was surprised by life.

I was surprised by life and the punches it threw without even making a fist.

Anthea spilled syrup all over her pants. It made me irrationally angry.

"Jesus Christ, Anthea," I huffed. "I've already done two loads of laundry today. You're such a mess."

Anthea finally looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in days, and I quailed.

"I might be," she murmured, her voice steady and spiteful. "I might be a mess because Effy died. But don't look at me like you're not, too."

"I'm not a mess," I shot back. "I'm the one who's cleaning everything up. Someone has to."

"I never asked you to."

"You never needed to."

Anthea glared. "Yes, I did."

"So, what, you're going to get drunk every night and be a big, stinking mess until you pass out?"

She smirked and got up, grabbing the liquor from the cabinet. "Who says I have to wait for the night?" She poured herself a generous glass and lit a cigarette. "Fuck off, will you?"

.

.

I did.

.

.

Anthea was hot and cold even before Effy died, always at the extremes. I guess she had to be if she was mother to a sun.

"I fucking love that girl," she'd tell me. "Love her to bits and she'll ruin me." Always with a bottle close by.

The next day she needed space, got possessive, guarded Effy. Always with anxiety squirming through her jaw.

"Go and play, girls. Don't mind me."

"Sleep with me tonight, Effy. I just worry."

"What are you asking me for? Climb a million trees, I don't care. Maybe you'll fly."

"Put that down, Effy; you can help tomorrow night. It worries me when you're in the kitchen." It was always the worry.

I worried.

I worried a lot.

But I was tired, too.

.

.

"I'm sorry, Naomi. About yesterday."

"It's okay."

"What's for lunch?"

"Grilled cheese."

"I don't—"

"Effy's favorite."

"Okay."

.

.

The lunch table was full of heartbreak and crunching. Anthea tried, she did. I knew she did, and that was why I could never quit on her. When she was in a tough love phase and told me to suck it up, I sat and waited for the inevitable tears, the soul-shocking hysterics that always came. When the tears started, I waited for the silence. We were never short on silence these days.

Of course, there was noise, too, and I hadn't decided which I loathed more.

"She's a ghost, Naomi."

I sighed; I should have known—tough love always came after apologies. "Only if you choose to make her one, Anthea."

"If I had any choice in the matter I would have chosen a different heart."

_For whom?_ I thought.

I ate my grilled cheese in silence. Noise sucked.

Anthea finished chewing and threw her crusts on her plate, storming out of the kitchen. "You're still living in her room; no wonder you're so pale."

.

.

Two days later I had clammy hands and lots of paint cans. The walls, so bare to begin with, were exposed, devoid of the few posters and the lone mirror she'd had hanging. Plastic covered the furniture; the bed was stripped of all sheets and coverings.

I took pictures of the yellow, documented every speck and crack that meant something. Small craters weren't really small. They had character, spoke volumes about the girl who might have put them there. I got close to the paint, really noticed how even though it looked flat, there were layers. Striations in every inch, ridges and waves and whorls. It was textured, a combination of the drywall and the brush used to paint it.

I memorized the color, named it 'Effy', and then I destroyed it.

The sun had no place in this room anymore. It had set, and everything was twilight. I made indigo W's over the sun like the man in the store had told me, and when I painted what came out wasn't purple. It was a mural of mongooses and naked mole rats, blue eyes that glowed like a predator in the dark, frail shoulders that hid me when possibilities made me tremble.

_It's night_, I kept telling myself. _It's night and I don't have to hide anymore._ With every stroke of the brush I felt safer, more at peace. When I finished one coat, I went back to the beginning and started another. There were no alarms that day, no four-hour chunks of life. I was purple; I was painting; I was alone.

I was. And eventually she wasn't.

And I cried.

.

.

Anthea was the one who found me the next day. She hadn't showered, her breath reeked of booze, and there was a thin line of black under her fingernails. But she walked into my room and she smiled.

"Looks different."

I scooted over to make room for her on the bed. "Yeah. Do you like it?"

"I will. You need a new blanket, though. And maybe new carpet."

"Maybe you could help me with that."

She patted my hand with trembling fingers. "We'll go soon."

"I love your daughter."

"I know."

"Even if she is a ghost."

"She's not."

"You smell like shit, by the way."

"That's my girl."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Man, have I _missed_ this story! I took a break from it (in part) because I was getting a little disheartened by some of the reactions; let me say this now: yes, this is a Naomi/Emily story. No, classifying it as such was not just a ploy to get readers. Yes, Emily will show up at some point. Yes, it might take another ten chapters. No, I will not suffer any whining about it. Why? Because I just want to tell the story right. You guys don't have to read the story if you think I'm taking things too slowly.**

**(But I hope you do, and also that you enjoy it).**

* * *

><p>"Who are you?"<p>

"Naomi Campbell."

"What are you?"

"A person."

"A person."

"A person who cares."

"And why do you care?"

"Because I matter."

* * *

><p>"Naomi, love, your eggs are burning."<p>

"Just a minute; I want to finish this article."

"You can finish it…oh, for fuck's sake." Anthea set a plate in front of me. "One of these days you'll actually finish making your own breakfast."

I ate a bite of breakfast and flashed her with a cheesy, eggy grin.

"Yeah, yeah," she dismissed. "What are you reading today?"

"Piece about healthcare in America. It's all a bit shit."

Anthea took a sip of tea and winced at its temperature. "Ah, America—land of terrible laws and the greedy bastards who write them. Don't swear."

"You're one to talk."

"There are probably more interesting articles you could read, you know."

"I know."

I heard her expel a tiny sigh into her mug and I smiled. Six months after Effy's death and Anthea was coping fairly well. It wasn't easy, and there were still mornings where I had to drag her out of bed, but she no longer dug her head in the sand. (And if she did, she didn't object when I pulled it back out again). The routine of lessons was helping, I knew.

Anthea's lessons were unlike anything I'd ever encountered, not that Jenna's were really an adequate basis for comparison anyway. She never opened a book or told me to; she never presented me with a piece of paper unless she knew I had words to fill it.

I'd furrowed my brows the first time she assigned an essay. She gave no guidelines but for me to write about something with which I was unfamiliar.

"How am I supposed to do that—look it up in books?"

"If you want. You should do some research."

"Well, do I _have_ to?"

"Have to what?"

"Look it up in books!" I'd huffed.

Anthea had only smirked. "You have to do research."

I'd rolled my eyes and flounced upstairs, looking around my room for any inspiration. (It truly was my room now—nothing of Effy's remained, save for her tin and her pen collection. And me. Always me). I spun in my chair for a few minutes, eyes stretched to the ceiling, hands clasped on my stomach in thought. I realized soon after that my efforts were useless—I knew everything in my room quite well.

"Dinner's at seven," Anthea had called out when I headed out the front door. I threw her my best scowl.

I found myself at the park, sitting on top of the monkey bars and watching the trees.

There were enough in the field that I didn't know, but only one that wanted to know me. And I couldn't make my feet move.

Anthea had let me brood as long as I wanted. And a week later, she was reading an essay about why it was okay to hope sometimes.

"So what do you want to talk about today?"

Anthea interrupted me with her question; it was one thing about her teaching methods I still hadn't gotten used to. Every so often, being allowed to change what I learned about blew my mind.

"I've got some lovely documentaries we could watch," she suggested, wiping her mouth.

"Can we not do school stuff today?" I asked instead, shifting in my chair.

"Using your free day so early in the week? Bold move," Anthea joked.

I squirmed some more. "No, I just…do you know anything about my parents?" It was a thought that had been bugging me ever since Effy died. I'd never given my parents much thought before; Jenna had stamped any urge to question out of me very early on. But Effy had been my family and she was gone far too soon, and I was suddenly petrified of being alone. Jenna would never tell me anything, but Effy had to learn how to see from _someone_, right? And so I asked Anthea.

"Well, your mother was your Uncle Rob's favorite sister," she began. The only problem was I knew that already. "I don't know much about her; by all accounts she was a lovely person. Wicked sense of humor, that much I do know. She would send Rob the crudest packages sometimes and he just laughed it off." Anthea tapped the edge of her spoon against the table, fidgeting.

"And my dad?"

Not one to sugarcoat anything, Anthea answered promptly and without any emotion. I didn't know if I loved her or hated her for it. "He was a deadbeat. Jobless, no ambition, but he adored your mother. I only ever saw him once; they traveled a lot. You have his smile, though." She graced me with a small one of her own, and I felt my heart warm.

"Did she love him, too?" I whispered.

"Of course."

"And me?" I asked. Tears threatened. "Did they…?"

Anthea's smile turned sad. "More than anything, dear." I nodded absently. "It was a mugging gone wrong, I believe," she continued, cutting off my next question. "They were just in the wrong shop at the wrong time. You were about a year old."

She slid her plate away from her and rested her chin on her hand. "I remember when Jenna brought you home—you were barely bigger than Effy, and she'd always been small. I considered the entirely crazy notion of taking you in myself—you know, once I realized what a shit parent Jenna was—but with Effy…"

"Don't feel guilty, Anthea," I immediately reassured. "It's not your fault."

"I just wish you could have had as much time with her as I did," she sighed into her palm.

"So I could be as sad as you?" I countered. She smiled—a pity-laden, understanding smile—and grabbed my hand. "Can we do some writing now?" I asked, switching tacks.

"Now?"

I rose from the table to get my notebook. "I'm not going to waste a free day on people who aren't here anymore."

* * *

><p>"<em>Who are you?"<em>

It started out as a simple morning routine. Painting my room, taking care of Anthea—it had all sapped me of my energy. I stopped thinking about anything; I just let my body carry me through the morbid habits it had settled into. But one day, when it was still dark outside, Anthea had woken me up brusquely. "Who are you?" she'd asked, over and over again until I was alert enough to sputter out my name.

"_Naomi Campbell."_

Of course I knew my name. Of course I knew who I was.

Right?

I'd always been Naomi Campbell, the orphan; Naomi Campbell, Jenna's troubled niece; Naomi Campbell, the weirdo.

Does it count if there are subtitles to your identity?

"_What are you?"_

Apparently it didn't with Anthea.

"_A person."_

Anthea challenged me to start at the beginning, to find the me that had been before anyone else got in the way.

"_A person."_

She was skeptical. Of course I was a person; everyone was a person. But I wasn't everyone.

"_A person who cares."_

I had clarified quickly. I was too comfortable with subtitles to ever get rid of them completely. There would always be subtitles; I knew that. I just had to find the right one.

"_And why do you care?"_

It took me almost half an hour to answer that one.

("Because I should." No. "Because I have to." No. "Because no one else does." No. "Because Effy's gone." No. "Because you do." No. "Just because." No).

Anthea told me to stop fucking around and give her the real answer, the one I'd always doubted.

"_Because I matter."_

(Yes).

* * *

><p>My new thing was talking walks. It was a different kind of solitude than the sort Jenna had forced on me. It was solitude of my own choosing, my time to think about things. I didn't have to create landscapes and imaginary gardens; I didn't have to imagine trees or leaves, sandy beaches, rugged mountains, bright skies filled with clouds. I could walk outside whenever I wanted to, drag my feet in the dirt and create mountains of my own.<p>

Mostly I thought about Effy. I saved thoughts of her for my walks, for those moments when I didn't have to focus on anything else. I thought about the stories she might tell me, what she had to say about ducks in ponds and the old man I always seemed to pass, no matter where I was.

I thought about Anthea, too. I wondered if she would ever be happy again; I wondered how big of a hole Effy had left in her. (If it was anything like the crater in my lungs, I feared it would never get filled again). I wondered if there was enough of me to patch her up, or if she, too, had to find the Anthea that had existed before Effy. I wondered if I could help her turn into the Anthea after Effy.

Today's walk was cold and rainy; I huddled under my umbrella and tried to bury myself in my scarf. I walked through the park, circling Effy's tree with my arm outstretched. It was a habit I had yet to break (not that I really wanted to anyway). When the droplets turned heavy and fat, I began to make my way home. I forced myself to walk past Jenna's house; it never hurt to have a reminder of how much better my life was, even if my best friend was dead and her mother still struggled to get through an entire day without snapping.

I closed the front door with gusto, shaking off the rain that had snuck onto my sleeves and spattered my jeans. Anthea hated it when I left a pile of wet clothes by the door, but sometimes there was nothing better than shrugging off your wet coat, slopping it on top of your shoes, and forgetting about it.

It was late afternoon and the kitchen was empty, which meant it was my turn to make dinner. I gave the contents of our fridge a cursory glance—spaghetti and meatballs could wait a few hours.

Anthea was lying in her bed, covers up to her waist. Her hands were folded over her stomach and she rarely blinked as she stared at the ceiling. I climbed in next to her and pulled the blanket up to my shoulders.

"It's cold out," I murmured.

"You're getting the bed all wet," she answered.

"It'll dry." I scooted closer to her, letting my head fall on her pillow. She smelled good today, almost how I imagined a mother would smell. "What were their names?" I asked, taking a deep breath.

"Who, love?"

"My parents."

"Ah." She found my hand under the covers. "Emma," she finally said. "And Brian. Emma and Brian."

"Emma and Brian," I repeated. I had always thought that if I ever knew their names, it would mean something. That they would somehow find me, because they couldn't be dead. That was just a mean trick Jenna had played on me because that's just what she did, and if I knew their names, if I said them, we'd be happy again.

Well, I had said their names. I was happy, and they were nowhere to be found.

I looked up at Anthea, eyebrows raised. "Spaghetti okay for dinner?"

She broke her gaze from the ceiling and kissed my forehead, giving me a one-armed hug. "Spaghetti sounds great."

* * *

><p>When she woke me the next morning, it wasn't as dark as it had been that first time. And with each passing week, month, year, it got lighter and lighter; there were more smiles, fewer aggressive words. But it began every morning, my mantra. Because every day that I woke up, I learned about a new part of me.<p>

"_Who are you?"_

Naomi Campbell. Taker of walks, maker of spaghetti. Thinker. Dreamer.

A person who cares.

_(Naomi, her best friend)._

Naomi Campbell, a person who mattered.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey, I'm back! Thanks for all your lovely reviews! I had something more significant to say but I forgot it because I cranked out most of this chapter tonight. You can consider this part one of many Car-themed gifts for vangoghgurrl's birthday since she celebrates the whole month. That can be significant, right? Okay. Enjoy!**

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><p>I woke up that day thinking it would be special, that somehow it would be extraordinary because I was changing. I forgot that little detail about life, that change is constant, and there is very little extraordinary in constancy. So instead of an extraordinary day, I got a normal one—a little rainy, a little chilly, a little English.<p>

I tried breathing deeper than normal, but all I got was a bigger whiff of the same air that smelled faintly of winter because I rarely closed my window. I tried walking with heavier, more determined steps, but that just meant I could feel the hardwood under the shag carpet (and that had always been there anyway). I tried putting my socks on differently—left first, then right—but that just meant I had to take them off and do it the right way.

It was 5:52 and I didn't have to be awake until 6:00. I sat on my bed and watched the clock, watched the second-hand tick, tick, tick and go back again. It would have been so much easier if I was a clock. Metaphorically, I mean. I could make a mistake at three, completely bottom out at nine, but all would be forgiven once I crossed twelve. I could keep redoing my life, standing up to Jenna just a little bit more each time.

And yet there was still that nagging inevitability that every time I got to ten, Effy would die.

At 6:00 I got off the bed and walked in a line.

Anthea was already up and cooking breakfast. I smiled at the table—she'd put a stack of magazine clippings next to my plate, something she only did on my birthday. Making fun of the sexist ads was always my favorite present.

I smiled as I sat down, fully inhaling the scent of frying bacon. "It's not my birthday."

Anthea swung around, scooping three slices from the pan. "But," she said as she slid them onto my plate, "it is special." She smiled.

"What time do we have to leave?" I asked, crunching.

She sat across from me and fanned out the ads. "Why do they even bother taking pictures if they're just going to airbrush everything right out?" She sipped her tea and ignored my eye-roll. "About two hours, I'd say. It's not a long drive, but you'll want to get there early and get acclimated, I imagine."

"You know, I _am_ eighteen. I could drive myself."

"You'd get lost."

"I'll take a map."

"You'd probably leave it at a petrol station."

"God, she'd never be able to walk if those were actually her legs. She'd look like a stunted giraffe."

"Stunted? Not with those heels. You think they're made from the fur of polar bears or baby seals?"

"Feathers from a chick, probably. I think that's why they call it a peep toe."

"Admit it; you'd get lost without me."

I emptied my teacup with one last, long swig and let it clatter on the table. "Two hours, you said?" Anthea nodded. I pushed my chair back and got up. "Right, I'll see you then."

Anthea chewed her bacon thoughtfully. "Got some packing to finish?"

"No. I've got some packing to start."

* * *

><p>I found the position all by myself. It was really Anthea's fault to begin with, but she only started me. I finished it on my own.<p>

Within a year of living with Anthea, lessons were completely forgotten. Anthea recruited me, found the activist in me—the one who wanted to change the world, one forgotten child at a time. It was a gradual thing and I didn't notice it while it was happening. One day, papers strewn across my desk and a browser open to various tabs on child poverty statistics, I realized that I hadn't done a math problem in months. I stopped to ponder that, shrugged, and went back to work. If Anthea had taught me anything, it was the importance of being exactly where you're needed. Algebra didn't need me at all.

I started getting active online, visiting charity websites and forums where people tossed around ideas about making schools more friendly for kids of all developmental levels; ideas about finding homes for kids who didn't have any; ideas about getting kids more cognizant of how they could help the world.

(On the weekends, I researched all I could about heart diseases. I didn't tell Anthea about that).

As I got older, I became restless. I didn't want to help from the sidelines anymore; I wanted to be at the front lines. I wanted to volunteer. On my fifteenth birthday, I shyly asked Anthea if she could drive me to a nearby center for disadvantaged kids. I presented my case with quiet conviction, telling her that even though it was in a dodgy neighborhood, it was a reputable organization and it would be for a good cause and if I wasn't going to be there for the children, who would and god, Anthea, just think of the children!

She barely stifled a smirk and asked me why I wasn't in the car yet.

It was a small building, all faded brick and chipping paint. The sign above the door had once been bright and cheerful. On that day, it bore the name in dull purple letters. 'Changing Lives,' it proclaimed. I knew it looked gloomy, but I couldn't suppress a thrill of purpose. I was supposed to be there.

Anthea led me in and let me explain who I was, stepping in only when I flubbed words or forgot an important detail. The woman behind the desk was heavyset—she looked like she'd been weary for far too long. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but a few stray strands had snuck out from behind her ears. Her cheeks were limp and stoic as I talked.

She didn't speak for a few moments after I stopped, and I was heartbroken. I was so sure I'd blown it; I'd picked the wrong place to adopt, the wrong cause to champion.

She surprised me so much by laughing that Anthea had to steady me when I jumped back. She clasped my wrist gently as we traded wary glances; in the background, the woman kept laughing.

"Sorry, love," she eventually said, wiping her eyes. "Oh, you should see your face. Absolutely precious." She stepped out from behind her desk and finally smiled. "Naomi, was it?" I nodded. "Come on then, let's get you set up in the back."

Anthea left me with an encouraging smile and a comforting shoulder squeeze. She picked me up four hours later and I came back every day for three years.

It wasn't like it was the perfect job. The kids could be real brats when they wanted to be, not to mention their parents. But it was exposure—it was action, and it was exactly what I needed. Most of the kids were younger than me, and I watched them grow. I watched them interact with each other, with me and the rest of the staff, and I realized that they were just kids. They might have had anger problems, or home problems, or learning problems, but then again, who didn't? They just wanted someone to appreciate them, to see what they had to offer.

I could relate to them more than I cared to.

One of the walls in the center boasted a bulletin board; it was peppered with flyers for events and classes and occasionally the odd job listing. I never paid much attention to them; I had a job, and I was happy to have it.

A few months before I turned eighteen, Anthea started dropping hints that it was time for a change. "There's more to this world than your kids," she'd say. "More kids, even." I bristled at the first suggestion of leaving Changing Lives—people counted on me there. They needed me. More importantly, I needed them.

But the idea never really left my mind. I looked at the progress I'd made there—finding gently-used toys instead of broken ones, looking up worksheets and educational activities online. I'd raised money to give the place a slight makeover, touching up the paint and fixing chairs that wobbled, tables cracked from years of wear. I'd left my mark.

There was a flyer for a job that always drew my eye when I passed by. It was on faded pink paper with a garish clip-art picture of a shooting star. _Do you want to change a child's life?_ it asked in bold Comic Sans. Most of the time I scoffed at it, but the truth was that I answered the question silently every time I saw it.

(Yes).

It went on to explain that there was a position for a live-in aide available. The child in question was a little socially inept and had a short temper. He'd had terrible experiences in schools but there had been no success in finding a tutor to visit the home. It was signed by a Ms. Fairfax—"Eagerly awaiting your call," she said. Underneath her name was a telephone number and a request for "no unruly solicitors, please."

It was too tempting to resist after my conversation with Anthea, and I tore it gently from underneath the tack. I glanced at it once more, making sure that I really wanted to consider it.

"Gwen," I said, furrowing my brows in an attempt to look like I hadn't been overthinking everything on that piece of paper, "what do you know about this?"

Gwen, the woman behind the counter, the woman who ran the whole center, my mentor, my very close friend, ambled over to take a look. "That? It's just an old lady out in the country, has a ward who's apparently terrible to get along with."

"Yes, I see that. What do you know about this Ms. Fairfax?"

Gwen craned her neck in thought. "Not much, really. She advertises sometimes in the paper. Never seen her put up flyers, so she must be desperate this time."

"What's her first name?"

"Jenny, Jane…something like that. Something devastatingly normal."

"Is she normal?"

Gwen shook her head. "No. Quite batty, actually. Can you help put down chairs? It's about time to open shop."

I acquiesced and paid attention to the task at hand, but my mind was already wandering to a lonely child who needed someone to care.

I called Ms. Fairfax the next day before work. It was early, but I often stayed far too late at the center to be making house calls. She surprised me not only by being awake but also by sounding so cheerful. It took me a full five minutes to explain who I was—she wanted to talk about the healing properties of early-morning dew. I smiled, taking a liking to her and beginning to hope in earnest that she'd say yes.

In between thirty minutes of waffle, I managed to glean four very important things: 1) her name was Gina and she wouldn't suffer me calling her anything more formal than that; 2) the child's name was Alastair; 3) he liked mint ice cream just as much as I did, which made me extraordinarily qualified for the job and led to the fact that, 4) I could start in a month.

It was a good few moments before I remembered to stop smiling and go to work.

* * *

><p>And so there I was, a month later, sloppily stuffing socks into a suitcase far too late. It was all suddenly very real, and Anthea was waiting for me downstairs. She expected me to appear with bags packed and an excited smile, one that told her I was feeling good about my new life. She expected me to be ready.<p>

I expected I would retch before I got two steps out the door.

But I packed through the anxiety. I put clothes on top of clothes, piled important things on top of them. Effy's tin was nestled neatly under some shirts; her pen collection was tucked into a side pocket. I packed away my life (for safe-keeping) and realized I had a lot less to show for it than I thought.

(I went downstairs anyway).

Anthea was waiting by the door, putting on her coat in a fit of perfect timing. "Ready then?"

I took a breath and nodded, lifting my suitcases. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>For the second time in my life, I rode in a car without really being aware of it.<p>

There were cows, I think, and more hills than I could count.

Anthea never stopped talking.

I pressed my forehead against the window until I realized I couldn't actually touch the clouds.

And then suddenly, there was a house larger than any I'd ever seen before, and it was waiting for me.

* * *

><p>I felt small, looking at that house. I think Anthea did too, but I didn't look at her enough to see if her face actually showed it. I was too busy staring at the six-foot windows, the three stories, the muted brick that seemed sad. It somehow managed to be well-kept and run-down at the same time. It didn't exactly evoke any flair of confidence, and yet I was drawn to it.<p>

I turned to Anthea and stuffed my hands in my pockets. "So…" I began, not really sure how to continue.

"You want to go up alone," she finished for me.

I smiled nervously. "If that's alright with you?"

Anthea hefted my bags out of the car and deposited them at my feet with a thud. "Fuck off then, will you?" She returned my smile, only hers was wider. I was instantly reassured.

I stepped forward to give her a meaningful hug, one that said, "Thank you for everything." My tongue seemed to be having issues forming words. I pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and said the only thing I could think of.

"Bye, Mum." I grabbed my bags and rolled them away.

"Show that little brat who's boss!" she yelled after me.

* * *

><p>I had thought I would meet Gina at the door, but she was at the back tending to the garden. Instead, a very nice, very well-dressed butler named Gerald escorted me through the house. I suddenly felt very out of place in my jeans.<p>

Thankfully, the inside was more impressive than the outside. I strained my neck gawking at vaulted ceilings, brilliantly-colored paintings, perfect accent lights. I peered into every room I could, practically giving myself whiplash just for a split-second glimpse of expensive couches and tables. I made sure to keep my arms close to my body, lest I get so excited from just being inside the house that I knock over an antique sculpture or paperweight or something.

Gerald led me to the back gardens—compared to the rest of the house, they were relatively small, but just as well-kept. Someone obviously loved them a great deal (or, at the very least, instructed someone how to love them).

Gina, when she turned around, surprised me by looking so…familiar. She had blue eyes and blond hair eerily similar to mine, and I had a brief, irrational thought that she was actually my long-lost mother and had somehow arranged for this all to happen just because she wanted to meet me. Of course, I shook my head and quickly forgot that idea; I had seen a picture of my mother—once, when I scoured Jenna's room at the very horrifying risk of being caught—and she looked nothing like Gina. (And, you know, there was that pesky tombstone in the way of my fantasy. That one I absolutely could not get around).

Still, her appearance comforted me, and I found myself liking her almost as much as if I had known her for all my life.

"Naomi, thank God!" she said upon seeing me. Her shoulders heaved in a giant gesture of relief; she pulled her gloves off and flung them happily on the ground. "Just the person I wanted to see."

I extended my hand toward her. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Fa—_Gina_.

She looked me up and down before shaking my head. "You're exactly what I expected," she decided with a smile.

"Er…thanks?" She walked into the house, giving me no instruction to follow her. I did anyway. "I hope I'm not pulling you away from the garden…" I offered apologetically.

She dismissed me with a wave. "Oh, that jungle. I despise it. But someone's got to keep it up. Usually we have someone who does, but she's out at the moment."

"Is she coming back?"

Gina led me into the kitchen and pulled two mugs from a cabinet. "Would you like some tea? I imagine you're tired after your drive."

I sat down gratefully. "I'd love some."

Gina put the kettle on and sat down across from me. "Tell me about yourself, Naomi."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Erm, my parents died when I was very little, so did my best friend—"

She shook her head fervently. "No, those are things about your life. I want to know about _you_."

She stared at me with such expectation that I lost all ability to speak. I wasn't even saved by the kettle squealing—Gina just got up, filled our cups, and fixed me with the same stare when she sat back. I tried to think of how Effy would describe me, but I didn't think Gina would understand "changeling," nor would it make the best first impression.

"Well, I want to be here," I said instead.

Gina smiled. "More than I can say for some of the other residents."

"And I'm quiet most of the time."

She shook her head again, less violently this time. "So is everyone else."

I thought back to waking up that morning and saying the words I said every day. When the sun was still hiding, when night still hung uncertainly in the air, I had words I could be sure of. "I matter," I said firmly.

"_That's_ the ticket."

We chatted amiably until our teacups were empty, at which point we refilled them and chatted some more. I found her to be just as batty as Gwen had suggested, and completely compelling to boot. The faint lines on her face suggested she was in her early fifties, but she laughed often enough for it not to matter.

After two cups had been drained, Gina scooted back her chair. I followed her out the door, through a sitting room, down two hallways, until we finally reached a massive staircase. "Gerald's already brought your bags up to your room, I believe," she informed me. "I'd suggest taking the lift, but you seem like a stairs girl to me."

I looked at her curiously. "I do like the stairs, yes."

"Wonderful." She watched my face as I gawped at the pristine marble. "I promise the second floor isn't as ostentatious as the first," she said, sensing my trepidation. "Of course, guests don't often go upstairs, so why should it be as fancy?" She scoffed at her words—not like she wanted the second floor to be expensive, but like she was annoyed at the lack of consistency.

She was right, though; it wasn't as ornate as the ground floor, for which I was grateful. I'd been around enough rich housewives to be completely put off at the sight of a canopy bed. Fortunately, my room simply had a full. The curtains were modest, as well, and the walls were a calming shade of green. I took an immediate liking to it.

"Is this alright, dear?"

I nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. It's perfect. Thanks, Gina."

"Wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "Right, well, I think I'll leave you to it. Dinner's at seven sharp. Take your time settling in, but don't be late, please."

"See you then." She smiled and left.

I took a moment to be completely alone, something I hadn't been in years. Most of the time I was grateful for the constant presence, whether it was Effy or Anthea, but it was nice to be somewhere new. I could completely reinvent myself. I wouldn't but the possibility was still there, and it excited me.

I emptied my suitcase into drawers and closets, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. I had just a little over seven hours to get acclimated to the house, and I wasn't going to spend it cooped up in my room, nice as it was. Thankfully, I didn't have much to do, and I was done within half an hour.

I explored my room first, inspecting every corner and window. I watched the world outside for a few moments, watched the tiny specks of people on neighboring hills. It seemed out of place, this towering mansion in the middle of nothing. I wondered who Gina was hiding from to tuck herself away in such a large hole.

I ran my fingers over the wallpaper in the hallways as I left my room. The neighboring rooms were bedrooms of the same ilk as mine; the only thing that changed was the color of the walls. I liked that the floor had an air of sameness to it. It felt cozy.

As I turned the corner into a different wing of the house, I could make out faint music. Someone was singing in a high, shaky voice.

_Someday I'll wish upon a star  
>and wake up where the clouds are far behind me…<em>

I instinctually followed the voice, taking turns at random and doubling back when I'd gone the wrong way. I ended up at the doorway of a playroom, watching as a boy colored on a lengthy piece of white paper and sang to himself. He was an interesting kid, small and gangly at the same time, like his limbs had been snapped into a torso a half-size too small. His head bobbed lightly as he sang, making his tight brown curls bounce gently to a slightly-uneven beat. I smiled at the sound of his voice, pure and tremulous at that stage where boys sound sweeter than girls.

He looked up at me suddenly and I was surprised by large, judging eyes. "Who are you?" he demanded rather rudely.

"Erm, I'm Naomi," I said, tentatively joining him on the floor.

He scooted away the tiniest bit. "Why are you here?"

I cocked my head, trying to figure out the best way to answer that. I couldn't be sure, but I had a hunch that "I'm here to help you be a little bit less of a wanker" wasn't going to cut it.

"I'm just here to help," I finally said, shrugging my shoulders more nonchalantly than I felt.

"Are you like a babysitter?"

"If you want me to be."

He looked at me for another long moment before returning to coloring. "I don't need a babysitter." His red crayon broke in his palm and he dug voraciously through a tub for a suitable replacement. "When's my mum coming back?"

I frowned at the unexpected turn of conversation. "You're not related to Gina?"

"Ms. Fairfax?" He scoffed at the suggestion. "She's just our housekeeper. _My_ mum is Emily Fitch." He said her name like it meant something. It didn't to me.

"Where is she?"

He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot to ever invade his personal space. "She's traveling. She goes on trips all the time."

"What about your dad?"

He exchanged his red crayon for a deep purple. "He's dead."

It was the simple way he said it that made my heart twang, an out-of-tune guitar string desperate for some care.

"My dad died when I was little, too," I offered.

He jerked his head up, his little eyebrows scrunched in anger. "I'm not little," he protested.

"No, of course you're not," I said, barely checking a smile. "Can I help you color?"

"No."

"Okay." I sat instead, stretched my legs out and leaned back on my hands. I looked around his playroom, noticing the lack of trucks and guns that shot foam bullets. Instead, there were books and more DVDs than I could count. One of the far walls boasted a huge canvas, which was no doubt where he tore the paper from. I hummed as I took in my surroundings, absently picking up the song where he had left off.

His hand stilled a hair's width above his picture. "You know that song, too?"

I looked down at him intently. "It's one of my favorites."

"It's my song," he said defensively. "My mum sings it to me. She said it's special."

"Well, it is a special song," I agreed. "Should I stop singing it?"

He went back to coloring, keeping his head down the whole time. "My name is Alastair. You can color if you only use orange. I don't like orange."

I picked every orange crayon out of his container, making sure he couldn't see me smile.

There were still five hours before dinner. I wasn't quite sure I'd made a friend, but I had five hours to try.


	10. Part Three: Gina

**A/N: I think I might be on a roll with these updates, so be on the lookout for more in the near future. Or don't. We all know I'm terrible at keeping my writing promises. Either way, enjoy this one!**

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><p>By the time we had to get ready for dinner, Alastair and I had covered the entire sheet of paper plus another one that he got when I told him he couldn't draw on the walls. He'd given me every shade of orange, including the peach ones, and what started as a silly doodle turned into a mural of almost tapestry-like proportions. Alastair was intent on drawing dragons swooping in blue skies, wings hovering just above purple mountains, mouth wide open and screaming flames so red I could almost feel them burn my arms. I drew a knight, a brave knight with curious blue eyes. She had a ladder instead of a sword, cut to the perfect height so she could climb on the dragon's shoulders and tell him stories.<p>

Alastair asked only one question of me the entire time. Putting his green crayon down carefully, he scrutinized my drawing with a careful eye. "Why is your knight a girl?"

I sat back on my elbows and stretched my back—coloring was serious business. "Why not?" I shrugged.

Alastair took one last glance at her and went back to his half. "Okay."

At ten to seven, I took him to get washed up. Contrary to my expectations, he didn't put up any kind of fight. In fact, he was the one asking me if he could stay longer because he forgot to scrub beneath his nails. I only had to remind him to wipe his hands on the towel before he flew out the door. I wished he hadn't gone so quickly; I didn't exactly know how to get around the house and he was too fast to follow.

I headed in what I thought was the right direction and managed to get myself to the table with a minute or two to spare. Gina and Alastair were already sitting down; Gina nodded to me to take the seat immediately to her right. Alastair and I sat across from each other with Gina in between us, though the table could comfortably seat at least seven more. I should have felt awkward crammed into the corner of an expansive table, but instead I was comfortable. Not just comfortable, but comforted.

No one spoke until Gerald served us the first course, a savory tomato bisque. Gina dug right in.

"So, Naomi," she said between practiced sips, "are you settling in alright?"

I swallowed my spoonful. "Yes, thanks. Your house is wonderful."

"Oh, it's not mine, love." Gina shook her head lightly. "I'm just the housekeeper."

That was what Alastair said, but I wanted to confirm with Gina. It seemed that she was just as willing to talk about it as Alastair was, which wasn't saying too much. "Right, that's what Alastair said," I replied, feigning forgetfulness.

"How are you two getting along then?"

I looked to Alastair, who was moodily swirling his spoon in his soup. "I think that's a question for Alastair to answer."

Gina and I waited in silence until he finally looked up, glancing between us before answering. "She knows Mum's song and she draws girl knights," he finally said.

Gina smiled. "I guess I'll have to decipher that one on my own."

I smiled back as I sipped my water. "You're probably better at it than I am."

Alastair was largely ignored for the rest of dinner, partly because he was a quiet kid and partly because Gina kept asking me questions. Where did I come from, how did I find the ad—oh, the center, yes, did I like working there, because Gwen had always given off a very hot and cold vibe to Gina. I explained that that's just how Gwen was. I tried to mutter that it was something I was used to, but I think Gina heard me anyway.

When the main course was served, Gina asked me just a second too late if I minded tofu—they didn't normally keep a vegetarian household, but Gina tried to when Ms. Fitch was away. ("It's all shit, dear—pardon my French, Alastair; cover your ears, I think—all those preservatives that they put in meat these days.") I kept my mouth shut about pesticides in produce and ate the tofu anyway; it was actually quite delicious.

"Alastair's mum isn't vegetarian, but she's rarely here so I suppose we've gotten used to it." I pushed my plate away, fully satisfied from the entrée, and entirely surprised that I was.

I wiped my mouth with my napkin—cleanliness seemed to be the way to go in this house. "I take it she travels a lot?"

"More than the average person, I'd suppose," Gina nodded. "She travels for work, mostly. Sometimes to visit her sister. I never really know when she'll turn up back at Lainundare."

"Sorry, Lainundare?"

Gina craned her head toward the door, no doubt looking for Gerald and his next tray of food. I didn't know how she could stand to eat any more; I was stuffed. "Oh, that's the name of the place, love. Been in the Fitch family for years."

"What's it mean?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

I tried not to roll my eyes that much—I got the sense that this was just how Gina was. "What does Ms. Fitch do?"

"Advertising, mostly. She's got to travel to meet a lot of clients. Uppity rich snobs who can't bother to leave their gigantic mansions with rooms just for their shoes."

I didn't mention that Lainundare seemed to have a lot of space that could be filled with shoes.

"What's she like? Ms. Fitch, I mean."

"Oh, look, Naomi! Cheesecake!"

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><p>Gina pulled me aside to talk while Alastair got ready for bed. He liked to have his alone time, a habit that she hoped he'd break. I took that to mean I was supposed to be the one to break it. I didn't make any promises though; being alone wasn't exactly a bad thing (in moderation, of course). I'd basically been brought up as a lone kid, and I'd turned out alright.<p>

I had thought that Gina would want to talk about me more, which I wasn't exactly enthused about, but instead she offered to answer any questions I had. I was pretty sure my face lit up a little too eagerly. Really, I wanted to know why she seemed to be skirting the subject of Alastair's mother, but I didn't want to jump in too early and make her hostile.

I stuck to questions about her instead, which she seemed to be more than happy to answer—the woman could talk the ears off of everyone in England.

She told me she was originally from London but had left when she was twenty, completely fed up with city life.

"It was so dirty, Naomi. Dirty and loud and unforgiving—I'm a late-blooming country girl myself," she said, smiling.

I sank back into my armchair, elbow propped on the armrest, head resting on my fist. "I've only been to London once, but I enjoyed it."

"Family trip?" she inquired. Gina wasn't being nosy, but I felt that she would have been disappointed if I didn't answer.

So I did. "Sort of."

In fact, I had gone with Jenna and my cousins when I was eight. Abigail had a friend in the city, and instead of letting her go alone, Jenna had turned it into a weekend trip. I didn't believe her when she booked train tickets for all four of us—usually she dumped me at the house of one of the homeschool kids. It didn't sink in that I was going with them until Jenna yelled at me the night before for not being packed.

She never explicitly told me to stay away from them for the duration of the trip, but I did anyway. She dropped Abigail off at her friend's and took Josh who-knows-where. I had a small amount of pocket money, enough for me to buy lunches and passes for the Tube. I spent two days wandering around museums. I could have easily spent both days at the British Museum, but I couldn't pass up the National Galleries or the Tate. It was difficult to tear my eyes away from all the exhibits—it was important, standing next to something that mattered.

I spent a good deal of time walking around the city, too. I knew that someone might stop me if they thought I was by myself, so I made sure to walk behind couples that looked like they might legitimately have a kid. It worked wonders, and I was free to watch people without interruption.

The streets were always busy and no one ever asked me to explain myself. I loved London.

"Well, it takes a certain type of person to enjoy cities. It's not an either-or situation," Gina said thoughtfully.

"I like the country, too."

"I'd certainly hope so," Gina smiled. "Otherwise, what would you be doing here?"

I grinned back. "Fair point. Speaking of, what brought _you_ here, Gina?"

"I thought we'd already covered that, putrid cities and all."

"To Lainundare, I mean," I pushed.

"Hmm." Gina leaned her head back and thought; it was the first hesitation I'd seen so far. My heart pounded in my chest—I'd clearly crossed a line; I was probing too deeply. I'd messed up any connection we might have made, surely. If only I could tell myself that I didn't need to know.

"I suppose it was because of Emily," she surprised me by saying. "Ms. Fitch, I mean," she corrected quickly. "It was a similar situation to yours—her parents were looking for a nanny, though Emily wasn't nearly as difficult a child as Alastair. And her sister Katie was worse than both of them. But Emily barely needed me to pay any attention to her, which of course made me want to watch her all the time. She was an odd child, Emily."

"Why?"

But Gina shook her head, done with reminiscing for the moment. "It does no good to talk about what she used to be like, Naomi. She's changed a lot since then."

I could tell when my chance was over. "Okay."

"I will say this, though: Ms. Fitch might not be easy to get along with. Don't take it personally." She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Okay," I repeated. "Got it."

Her smile was back, erasing the solemnity in the air. "Right, good. Now why don't you go see what your little ward is up to; I'm going to call it a night myself."

"Sounds good," I said, standing up. "Goodnight, Gina."

"Goodnight, dear."

We went our separate ways, she to the kitchen to snag a late-night snack, and me to check on Alastair. I found him in his room, intently reading a book.

I knocked lightly on his door frame. "Is it alright if I come in?"

He looked at me and immediately went back to reading. He never said no, so I walked in and sat on the edge of his bed.

"Are you all ready for bed?" He didn't even look at me this time. I gently pulled the book from his fingers. "I don't need you to tell me everything, Alastair, but I do expect answers when I ask you a question. Now, are you all ready for bed?"

He practically pouted at me. "Yes."

"You've brushed your teeth and everything?" He exhaled noisily onto my face. His breath smelled minty and resentful. "Right, good job on that one." He blatantly eyed his book; I closed it and put it on his nightstand. "You can have a bit of a lie-in tomorrow, but as soon as you're up and ready I'd like to get started on school stuff. Nothing too serious," I said, cutting off his objections. "I just want to know where you're at, what you like. I'm going to be here for a while, Alastair. Better we get to know each other sooner, yes?"

"Okay," he grunted.

"Okay. Now, I'll give you your book back if you promise to put it down after fifteen minutes. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he sulked.

I smiled. "Wonderful. I'll leave you to it. Goodnight, Alastair," I said, pausing at the door.

"Naomi?" He sounded so little. "Could you sit with me? My mum usually sings that song to me before I go to sleep."

I watched his hopeful face and tried not to pity him. "Well, I'm not much of a singer. But I'm a great sitter."

I settled myself into a chair next to his bed and watched him read his book, something about a wimpy kid. He barely lasted five minutes before his eyes started to droop; the book sagged in his little hands. It fell with a soft thump a moment later. I marked the page with a scrap piece of paper and drew the covers over his shoulders.

It was just past ten o'clock. The halls were quiet and dimly lit. The carpet absorbed my footsteps—but for the shadows I made when I crossed a stream of light, it was almost like I wasn't there. I let my fingers skim the walls, memorizing the twists and turns that led me from Alastair's room to mine. Now that I had time to walk I could see that the halls weren't as confusing as I'd previously thought. It was actually quite relaxing.

"…_two meters, two meters—two meters by four point two. Watch out for that one; it squeaks. It shouldn't; what's the hold ratio, jump to find the cracks…"_

The voice was soft and wispy, seeming to come from everywhere. It was agitated and forced, but suddenly there was a cough, and it disappeared. I quickened my pace, hurrying through the halls to check every room I came upon.

I didn't find anyone.

When I went to bed that night, I made sure to lock my door.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: It's been almost four months, I know. Let me say sorry.**

**_loop! Oh look, it's an apology time  
><em>**

**Okay, done with that? Great. Please enjoy.**

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><p>I didn't get to sleep as much as I'd have liked. Once I didn't have anything to do (<em>meet Gina find my room meet Alastair have dinner talk with Gina check on Alastair go to bed<em>), my thoughts took over. They came barreling at me full force, without any sort of apology or warning. The atoms of worries and questions and anxieties slipped together and formed covalent bonds, laughing when I tried to destabilize them. The electrons joined hands and created a giant game of Red Rover. They dared me to run. I didn't have a choice, but I couldn't get my feet to move fast enough.

_What are you doing here Alastair hates you you're not good enough what is Anthea doing what is Jenna doing I want to go home but this bed is so comfortable and Gina is nice tomorrow will be a disaster I bet Ms. Fitch will hate me when she gets here I miss Effy_

I couldn't ignore them but addressing them would be like unraveling a giant knot with one hand tied behind my back. It just wasn't possible.

And yet, like rope digging into my wrists, they wouldn't leave me alone. So I took them apart piece by piece, pulling strands carefully through small openings, listening to the gentle scraping as they passed.

I was supposed to be here. Alastair didn't hate me. He might not have particularly _liked_ me, but he didn't hate me. Anthea was probably at home drinking, or maybe eating the pasta I'd left her. Or both. Jenna was probably carrying on like it was a normal day; she didn't know I'd moved across the country. (I didn't want to wonder about Jenna, but even her house was less daunting than this one). If tomorrow did turn out to be a disaster, I'd have to deal with it. I couldn't just leave.

(I still missed Effy).

It's funny what you think about when you're by yourself. It's never really what you'd expect. I thought I'd be pleased with myself, happy that I'd ended up somewhere I was needed, even if it did turn out to be a temporary thing. I thought I'd feel accomplished, excited—I thought I'd feel a sense of purpose. I thought I'd feel like I was finally somewhere I was supposed to be.

Instead, I felt like exactly what I was: alone. I felt like the scared twelve-year-old who lost her best friend all over again. I felt like a homesick kid at camp and all I wanted to do was call my mum to come get me, but I couldn't even do that because the one I had was still just the next best thing.

"…_crackers crumble when you crush them. How much force does it take to produce granules the size of sand? Crush them harder, crush them harder. Watch out for your fingers; they'll bleed…"_

And to top it all off there was a fucking ghost living in my ceiling.

I didn't sleep very well that first night.

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><p>That first morning, it was like waking up in a hotel. The blankets were comfortable and smelled generic. The sun was shining through the curtains, which made me laugh—the one day of my life I felt like I was on vacation, and I had to work. I half expected to see a parking lot when I drew them back. The desk across from the bed was sturdy, a solid, polished oak that looked as functional as it did sophisticated. There was a small monitor on a stand in the corner, which I imagined worked as the television. This room, without being flashy or pompous, had everything I could want to make myself comfortable.<p>

But it wasn't mine.

I only felt more disconnected as the day went on. It seemed that my brief bonding moment with Alastair was nothing more than that—a simple moment. He was, to put it nicely, the most aggravating boy I'd ever met. I tried all my tricks on him, the ones I'd learned at the center after years of working with belligerent kids. Some were tricks I'd picked up from pamphlets or colleagues, but most were things I'd learned from being fed up. You find out a lot about a person when you're frustrated with them. I'd found that it led to useful discoveries.

None of them worked on Alastair.

When he refused to do math or history or writing or anything, I was patient with him. I coaxed him to at least try, assuring him that I wouldn't laugh at, judge, or otherwise humiliate him in any other way. I told him it was okay to be wrong, that that was just how people learned.

He'd glared at me so hard that for a moment, I understood how Jenna must have felt every time I looked at her. (It didn't make me sorry. I just glared right back).

"I wouldn't be wrong," he hissed.

"So why don't you prove it?" I challenged.

His reply was calm, blowing frigid disdain over my heated ears. "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

I expelled a frustrated line of air from my nose. "I don't care what you _want_ to do. I'm telling you to do it."

He picked up a crayon and barely batted an eyelash. "No."

I was gentle with him. He was infuriating.

I was short with him. He was infuriating.

I was angry with him. He was angry back—and infuriating.

At three o'clock, I dismissed him to go play in his room. He smiled smugly, like he'd won something, and I suppose he had. We'd been "working" since the early morning and hadn't gotten anything accomplished. I felt like I had the first day at the center, completely out of my element and unprepared. Only it was worse this time—I'd learned over the years how to communicate with difficult children. They weren't really difficult, anyway. You just had to know how to handle them.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to handle Alastair.

It was only when I heard his triumphant steps thunder above my head that I let my frustration out. I checked to make sure that no one was in sight to witness me—peeking my head around doorways and corners, checking mirrors and windows twice—and then I threw a temper tantrum. I stomped on pillows, toppled piles of papers, kicked chairs and sofas, grunting like a trapped animal the whole time. I threw the blocks I'd used to try and stimulate interest in math (taking care to make sure they didn't hit anything important). I briefly considered ripping up some of Alastair's books, but there was a very distinct line between frustration and revenge. My tantrum may have been childish, but it wasn't malicious.

A laugh sounded from behind me. "Are you quite finished? Gosh, I forget sometimes."

I turned to see Gina clutching a cup of tea and smiling at me. My cheeks flushed and I hung my head quickly, tongue tripping over an apology. "Er, sorry, Gina; I'm usually more composed than this…"

"It's alright, dear. Long as you clean it up, I've got no problems." She picked a cushion off the floor and patted it back into the couch before sitting on it. My cheeks flushed again.

"Right. Yes. Cleaning. Absolutely. Forget what?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you forget sometimes. What do you forget?"

"Ah." Her lips quirked upward in a small smile. "I forget sometimes that you're still a child. Behind the eyes of a forty-year-old lurks the spirit of a teenager yearning to be freed," she sighed dramatically, accentuating the moment with a long, theatrical slurp.

I wanted to be offended, but she was so damn charming I couldn't resist smiling myself. "I'm not a child," I protested weakly.

"A toddler." She threw her hand over her eyes.

"Young, perhaps."

"An infant," Gina gasped, clutching her arms to her chest.

"Okay, _very_ young."

"A fetus! Oops." She frowned down at the tea slowly spreading over her lap, her finger still pointed emphatically in the air. I could hold it in no longer; the laughter I'd been fighting purely out of stubbornness spilled out of me in raucous gales.

I dropped down on an armchair in an effort to calm myself; Gina shifted to the dry side of the couch.

"There's that smile. Having a bit of a rough day, love?"

"No, actually, everything's rainbows and ponies."

"He'll come around eventually."

I sighed and flopped my head against a pillow. "How do you deal with him, Gina?"

She shook her head ardently. "No, that's the wrong way to go about it."

"How do you mean?"

"Alastair has enough people that already _deal_ with him, Naomi—his past teachers and peers, his mother…he doesn't need another one. He needs someone to pay attention to him."

"He just won't listen, Gina. How am I supposed to teach someone who won't listen?"

Gina smiled mischievously. "Alastair doesn't need a teacher, Naomi. He needs a friend."

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. "Right, because that's so much easier."

"Of course it's not. But at least you know where to start." I nodded and closed my eyes. Making friends was achievable; I could make friends. I'd only ever had one friend before, really, but I was pretty good at that one. I sighed and squared my shoulders, pushing off my knees in an attempt to gain some momentum (both literal and metaphorical).

"No, no, Naomi!" Gina yelled, waving her arms in heavy, panicked jerks. "I didn't mean _right now_. You can't try to be his friend now."

I frowned and fell back onto the chair. "Why not?"

"You'd fail."

"Oh."

There was a silence as we both mulled over her statement; Gina, for her part, didn't seem the least bit embarrassed about it. I didn't know what to make of it. I was grateful for the honesty, but disheartened by the implication of rejection. More than anything, I wanted just once to be able to do something right on the first try.

"Doesn't Alastair have anyone he's close to?" Gina shook her head. "Not even his mum?" A slower, guiltier shake this time. "What about you?"

Gina's mouth drew down in a shameful expression. "It's very difficult to be Alastair's friend," she sighed.

"But I'm supposed to try."

"Yes. I have the utmost confidence that you'll succeed. Just not tonight," she added.

"Why is it difficult?"

Gina began picking at her cuticles, fingers jerking violently every time they snagged. "He's frustrating, as I'm sure you well know. You think you're making some progress with him, and then you wake up the next day to find that not only has that progress been erased, but he's actually gotten worse. It just…got too hard. I had to stop trying."

"You tried with Ms. Fitch. Alastair's mum, I mean." I didn't mean to sound accusatory, but it came out that way. I was simply curious about everything—who was nice, who was mean, if anybody actually _liked_ anybody else. I wanted to know how much just being part of the status quo was going to screw me up. "Alastair seems to idolize his mum; why doesn't she like him back?"

"Of course Emily likes him back; he's her son," Gina snapped. She took a breath and composed herself. "Sorry, love. Emily was special—_is_ special. She's just…very different from Alastair." Gina's right thumb swiped over her left ring finger, still deftly picking at nails, and judging by her sharp intake of breath, did so painfully. "I really don't want to cloud your image of Ms. Fitch, Naomi. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I'm going to have to call Ms. Fitch 'off-limits.'" From anyone else, the emphatic air-quotes would have been tacky and condescending. Gina managed to make them genuine and completely hilarious, and I had to check a smile.

"Right, so we'll talk about something else then."

Gina grinned. "Absolutely anything else."

"The weather?"

"Hate it."

"Old paper."

"Love it."

"Monkeys."

"Too sneaky."

"The ghost on the third floor."

"What?"

I made sure Gina's eyes were trained on me. "There's somebody living above me. He keeps muttering at night. It's very annoying."

"Somebody living above you," Gina repeated. "Right." It was right there, the lie she was forming—right there in the crinkle between her eyebrows, the tilt of her head. "That's just Freddie," she explained. "He needs a place to stay. Unfortunately, he also smokes quite a bit; it makes him a touch loopy."

"Why do you let him stay here then?"

"Ah, well, you'll never find a more meticulous person than a completely stoned Freddie. I'll have a chat with him; don't worry about it, dear," Gina said with a smile.

I did anyway.

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><p>I got out of bed early the next morning and woke Alastair up unceremoniously half an hour later. I didn't listen to his protests or excuses. I just waited for him to get dressed and follow me outside, which he did amidst much grumbling.<p>

"What are we doing?" he asked once we were outside. He kicked a rock petulantly, narrowly missing my ankle.

"Walking." I stopped in front of a tree, gnarled and black in the frigid morning wind. If it had had leaves, it would have been almost majestic. "Alright, Al," I said cheerily, shoving my hands in my pockets, "which way from here?"

"Where are we going?"

"I dunno," I shrugged. "You pick."

He eyed me suspiciously before answering. "Okay, let's go right."

I went left.

We continued like that for the next hour or so. I'd ask him sporadically to pick a direction, and sometimes I'd even listen to him. I never created a pattern, never let him get comfortable with predicting my behaviors. Sometimes I pointed out a pretty flower, or an oddly-shaped stick, but I never engaged his questions or responded to his blatantly rude remarks.

When I got tired, I stopped in a field and waited for him to catch up. "Right, here we are."

He glared at me, hands on his knees. The glint of the sun made him squint even more. "Where?"

"No idea. You hungry?"

"Starving." He straightened slightly at the suggestion of food.

"Well, I haven't got any lunch. I guess you'll just have to get us home."

"Me? Why me?" he blurted.

"Well _I_ don't live around here. I haven't the foggiest where we are."

"Well I don't either!" he screeched.

"You don't know where we are?"

"No!" Alastair stamped his foot in frustration.

"Okay. I'll try this way." I kept walking forward.

Alastair scoffed so loudly I could almost feel the waves of contempt hitting my back. "You can't go that way."

I turned to face him. "Why not?" I asked, feigning confusion.

He rolled his eyes spectacularly. "Because it's the _wrong_ way. We've only just come from over there." He pointed in the opposite direction.

"Ohh, so you _do_ know where we are!"

Alastair simply rolled his eyes again and walked off.

I followed him, grinning.

He walked confidently for the first fifteen minutes, taking twists and turns that were still fresh in his mind. When he faltered, I didn't give him any clues. I asked him what he remembered about the route we took (because I'd forgotten simply _everything_; you know what they say about memory—it goes with age).

The first uncertain path was marked by a tiny daffodil at the base of a shrub—we'd taken a left at it on the way, so naturally we had to take a right to go back.

Alastair stopped right in front of it, teetering on his toes. "Erm, I don't…I think we go that way." He pointed in the wrong direction.

I tapped my chin and pretended to think. "This was where we turned right at that big rock, wasn't it?"

"No, that's later. Why did Ms. Fairfax hire you? You're not very smart."

"You'll have to ask her when we get home, I suppose—I mean, _if_ we get home."

"We'll get home!"

"I have complete faith in you, Alastair."

"Really?"

"Maybe."

His scowl was impressive. Anthea would have been proud, especially considering his age. "I think I remember a flower or something."

I casually pointed to the daffodil. "Oh, you mean like this one?"

Alastair brightened when he saw it, smiling in excitement. "Yeah, that's it! I told you I knew where we were going. Come on!" He whipped around in the right direction and ran off.

When we got to the big rock, he ran a few loops around it—one hand sliding against its surface, the other reaching outward—before continuing home.

At the creek, I stopped to wash my face. I made it look like I was going to go for a swim before he grabbed my wrist.

He shot me an exasperated look that was almost a smile. "Naomi, stop being silly. I want lunch." He dragged me behind him, my feet dangerously close to tripping his.

When I deliberately led us in circles just outside the grounds, he actually laughed, stopping abruptly when he realized who he was laughing with. He continued his surly front all the way up and into the house, relaxing only when he had a monstrous tuna salad sandwich on his plate. Gina and I made light conversation as he scarfed down his food, scampering out of sight the second he finished eating it.

Gina raised her eyebrows and sipped her water. "Found a way to deal with him, then?"

"Oh, no." I smiled and winked. "I made him deal with me."


	12. Chapter 12

The ensuing weeks were hard.

"_Operation Finding Things has begun."_

"'_Operation Finding Things'? You couldn't come up with anything __**cooler**__?"_

"_We're walking down a muddy creek because you told me to find things. So…Operation Finding Things."_

For one thing, the weather wouldn't cooperate. The sun, so bright only a few days prior, had begun to hide and cool; fog rolled in with the promise of dawn and lingered too far past noon. It was hardly outdoor weather, but I wanted to get Alastair out of the house as much as I could—the kid had a huge plot of land all to himself, and yet he much preferred to stay inside and draw. Well, I was his teacher, and I much preferred to do things that annoyed the living daylights out of him.

(It was all Jenna's fault. I learned control from her rage, justice from her irrationality, love from her indifference.

I didn't—wouldn't _ever_—practice the indifferent part, but Alastair seemed to be managing okay anyway).

"_I'm just saying, you could have gone so many other routes. The old standby, Operation Adventure—you know, it's a bit cliché, but at least it shows you're making a little effort."_

"_I found a stick."_

"_Put that down; it's filthy. Or something totally mysterious, like a codename. Like, you're finding things, and things are like…stuff, and when you stuff something, um, you're—well, you're putting it in a bag or something and sometimes bags are secret because people are spies."_

"_Operation Secret Spies Stuff Bag Things?"_

"_That's a terrible name; where did you get that idea?"_

The other problem, of course, was Alastair himself. It wasn't like he wasn't warming up to me—every day he got a little more lenient, barked at me a little less. No, I wasn't the problem. He was. He was his own problem. Alastair was terrified of himself, of what would happen if he let himself be a little kid. Or something along those lines—there seemed to be more to it. But he never opened up to me, and I couldn't ask. So I let him blossom sideways instead.

One night, Gina knocked on my door to tell me that a colleague of Ms. Fitch's was coming by to drop off some important paperwork and check up on the house. She didn't say it outright, but her words more than implied that everyone with whom this colleague might come into contact—even if that might was the tiniest might in the world—should look and act their best. So I put on my best clothes and went to Alastair's room to make sure he did the same. When I got there, he was already in a suit. He had even tied his tie. I'm not really sure how to describe how I felt just then, looking at the tiniest man I'd ever seen. It was like my heart was suddenly putty and someone was stretching it as far as it could go, and when it got to the breaking point, with the tiniest of flicks they punched a hole straight through the middle. And the only way to put it back together was to crumple it up completely.

Eight-year-old hands are the best for squeezing putty into perfect spheres, but I didn't have an eight-year-old. I had a thirty-year-old who had forgotten how to play.

(I had to do something about it. I was his teacher, after all).

"_What about Operation Me?"_

"_Operation Me…hmm. Potential. It's got mystery, a vague yet appealing sense of pretention…still missing something, though."_

"_Like what?"_

"_A colon. They are the suns of sentences, the bright lights that drive home your point."_

"_This is __**my**__ mission. I can call it whatever I want to. Stop being so difficult."_

(Alastair demanded I be less difficult at least once a day. I always fired it right back at him).

"_Just try it out."_

"_It's no different."_

"_If I have to stop being so difficult, so do you."_

"_Fine."_

(Neither of us ever stopped).

"_What are you waiting for? Say it. Tell me the name of the mission."_

"_Operation: Me."_

"_Ah! See! You said it different. Operation: You. I like it."_

"_Not Operation: You—Operation: __**Me**__."_

"_Well we can't call it Operation: Me; this is your mission, not mine."_

They were funny things, our lessons. We learned each other's tics—if I called the lessons "missions," he was less likely to be stubborn. I was more likely to mock him.

Whenever he flared his nostrils in frustration, I unconsciously flared mine back. Sometimes we had silent flaring contests (not to be confused with the more popular and infinitely less entertaining _staring_ contests.)

If he protested going outside by stamping his foot, he was faking. He actually wanted to go outside. If he crossed his arms, we had top secret missions in his room.

As the months passed, crossed arms were a rare occurrence—from him, at least. I had to fight the urge to cross mine in smug accomplishment. I always succeeded.

Okay. Almost always.

"_Naomi!"_

"_What?"_

"_I found a pretty leaf. Can we go home now?"_

"_Well, I guess we'd better. We should look after that rash before it gets too bad."_

"_What rash? I don't have a rash."_

"_Well, sure, not __**now**__. But you will. That leaf is poisonous."_

"_No it's not. How do you know it's poisonous?"_

"_Because I touched it five minutes ago and my hands are starting to itch."_

* * *

><p>"I can make a star out of your rash-freckles."<p>

"Yeah? Oh, I see it. I bet I can make a dragon out of yours."

"You cannot."

"I can so! Here, give me that marker. No, the red one."

"Why red?"

"I like the color red. Dragons should be red."

I twisted Alastair's arm to get the best view of his rash. I was also stalling—I hadn't actually seen a dragon in the angry dots. But I wasn't one to back down from a dare, so I had to find one quick.

I looked at how far the rash spread and frowned at him. "I thought you only picked this up with your hands. What did you do, rub it all over yourself?"

Alastair actually blushed, dipping his head to hide the rosy tint to his cheeks. "It was a soft leaf," he mumbled.

I checked my grin, fearing that if I made it as wide as I wanted, he might think I was making fun of him. But he looked up and gave me the faintest of smiles, so I let it out anyway.

"Here." He handed me the marker, chin resting on his knee. It made his voice muffled, like he was speaking into a pillow. It didn't last long, though, as it was a position that prevented him from indulging fully in his curiosity.

I pried his hand from in between his chest and legs and set it flat on the floor. Somewhere in between stretching his skin just enough so the marker didn't skip and the wisp of a laugh he breathed onto my cheek when I started to draw, something magical happened.

If I'd learned anything from my work at the center it was that children had no natural regard for personal space. The only reason a kid ever kept a distance from me was because they hadn't yet come to trust me. They still regarded me as someone who would start out disappointing and only get worse. But when I started to build a rapport with a kid, they got clingy. Sometimes one of them would snake a finger into one of my belt loops, tug on my shirt every five seconds, sit in my lap and ask me to read them a story. The violation of my personal bubble manifested in different ways for every kid, but it always happened.

Alastair was so interested in what I was drawing that he was practically crawling up my back. It's how Gina found us a minute later.

I could feel her standing behind me before she said anything. I looked up to find her craning her neck, brows creased in confusion. "Do you need something, Gina?"

She shook her head softly, still distracted by her thoughts. "No, I was just wondering…does that hamster have wings?"

Alastair giggled into the back of my neck. "I told you there wasn't a dragon, Naomi."

"There is so a dragon!" I protested. "Look at him—he's fierce! And he's breathing fire!"

"Oh. Of course." Gina didn't see it at all. "Well, I hate to separate you and your ferocious dragon, but Clara's run out of milk and she needs some for the dessert tonight. Do you think you could run to the shop and get some?"

"Sure." I capped the marker and nudged Alastair out of my way. "Car still out of petrol?"

"For the last fifteen years and counting."

"Wonderful. The cold walk will distract me from scratching my hands."

* * *

><p>The cold walk, in fact, made me want to scratch my hands more. So instead I stuffed them in my pockets and kicked the only rock I could find, a big, solid chunk of asphalt that thudded every time it came in contact with my shoe. <em>Points times two for the weight—ooh, nice one…<em>

The wind had died down from earlier in the morning, but the chill was even more pervasive. I couldn't dig my hands in far enough, couldn't walk fast enough to warm myself up via friction. I reached the tiny store sooner than I normally would, and, unable to think of a reason to linger in the toasty atmosphere, left just as quickly. Even the brief time I'd spent inside rendered me unprepared for the blast of cold that hit me upon exiting. I sucked in a frigid breath, felt it rattle its way down my chest, clinking as it turned my lungs into old machines powered by rusty cogs and wheels. I was walking fast again, almost running down the street. I needed a kick-start.

I stopped by the mailbox right outside the property, hoping to find a rare piece of mail from Anthea. She wrote very infrequently, but if I sent a letter she was reliable enough to always send one back. It'd been about two weeks since I'd last heard from her. She was doing well, and not just by Anthea-standards. Either that or she was lying through her teeth. I didn't know which one I was more willing to believe.

I might have noticed the car if I hadn't been wondering about Anthea, taking a wide turn into the driveway just because I could. As it happened, I barely side-stepped out of the way in time. The bills I'd taken out of the mailbox fell into the dirt and I watched a sleek black Jaguar skid to a stop five or six yards in front of me.

I could hear a lot of yelling coming from inside the vehicle and I groaned—there was no chance of walking away from this amicably. So I simply waited for someone to get out and yell at me.

"Excuse you, _what_ is your problem!" A very angry female voice screamed at me from the driver's side of the car. I could see a flash of red fluttering out the window.

"I—erm, I didn't mean…" I could have spent the rest of the time yelling over to her, but it just made me feel more like I was in trouble. Instead, I walked over to the window and peeked my head down.

A useless gesture, I soon found, as the woman came barreling out of the car, the fire on her heels offset by her red hair. She stormed over to the passenger side of the car and assessed the damage. There wasn't any that I could see, and I breathed a very heavy sigh of relief.

"I'm still waiting for an answer. What the actual fuck were you doing in my way?"

Her insistent, tapping foot sped my heart and pushed every word I knew out of my mouth in an incoherent jumble. "Uh, well, I was walking home and then—I didn't mean to…oh, looks like I've dropped my letters." I bent down to pick them up to hide my embarrassment.

"You're just lucky I didn't actually hit you. You'd better believe I'd be making you pay for damages."

"I'm really sorry—"

"And I'm pretty sure it's a crime to steal other people's fucking mail."

"I wasn't stealing anything!"

"Like fuck you weren't! What are those then?" She pointed angrily to the bunch of letters in my hand.

"Mail for Gina and Ms. Fitch, though she's not around."

The hostile woman narrowed her eyes, glaring at me calculatingly. Her cheeks were round and menacing, lips thin and threatening. Her eyebrows were poised in a perpetual dare. My first instinct was to apologize profusely, but then she crossed her arms and cocked her hip, adopting a powerful and intentionally-intimidating stance. It immediately reminded me of Jenna, and I had outgrown withering under Jenna's glare.

"Who are you?" she asked carefully.

I held my head higher. "Naomi Campbell."

"Fuck off; no, you're not," she scoffed.

"Yes, I am. I work at the house." I tipped my head in the direction of Lainundare.

"What could you _possibly_ be doing there?"

"I'm the aide for Ms. Fitch's son. Why do you care?"

I thought I heard the quietest, "Oh, fuck!" but I didn't see the woman's mouth move. However, I didn't have time to puzzle over it because she was back to yelling at me again.

"Look, if you're just going to lie to me—"

This time I couldn't resist yelling back.

"I'm _not_ lying to you; you can ask anyone in there—"

"—"I'll just report you right now; I bet I could have you, like, arrested at least…"

"—Gina will vouch for me or even Gerald or go ask Alastair; he loves me—"

"Oh, whatever. You shouldn't have been in the middle of the street anyway. And how can you be an aide? You look like you're fourteen."

I set my best Anthea-glare on the petite woman in front of me. "I'd try and guess your age but I can't get past the ten years of makeup on your face."

"Why, you little—"

"Little! That's rich coming from you. Did you grow up on Lilliput?"

"What the _fuck_ is Lilliput?"

"Brutus, get back here!"

A tiny brown ball skittered across my feet and my heart almost stopped. My hand fluttered up to my chest and I watched another redhead run after a nervous lapdog. I hadn't even realized there were two people in the car.

The dog, a Chihuahua maybe, one of those yappy dogs that lives in a giant purse, was busy running in frenetic squiggles on the road, barking fit to wake the dead and changing direction any time the second woman got any closer.

If I had thought it through, I might have stayed put. I might have avoided her altogether, let her wear the dog out in her own time. But it was such an odd situation, standing in the middle of a road that no one ever drives down arguing with a complete stranger over a mishap and watching her twin unsuccessfully try to capture a dog. (I could see that they were twins now—same hair, same body type. The eyes, though—I'd caught a glimpse of the second woman's eyes as she whizzed past me and there were no similarities there).

Because it was so absurd, I did the most absurd thing I could think of: I ran after her and tried to help. She flicked her gaze up to me for a second (her eyes were so hostile, the murkiest brown), assessing my sincerity. She must have found something agreeable, because she made no objections as I approached Brutus from the other side. We corralled him in between us, herding and trapping him like a lost sheep. She grabbed him at the last second, whispering soft and harsh reprimands in his quivering ear. She walked away without a second glance.

I rolled my eyes mightily and threw my hands up. "You're welcome!"

"Oh, take your letters and fuck off!" the first woman yelled.

"Gladly!" I yelled back. I heard a car door slam, tires peal. I stalked off in the opposite direction of the house. I needed time to cool off before I went back in and took my temper out on Alastair or Gina.

I sat down on a boulder I found a few minutes later. I just sat, sat and looked around at the landscape.

The sun was fading, painting shadows onto every tree. They were the darkest brown, and with every new one I spotted, I grew angrier.

* * *

><p>It was dark by the time I got back home. I kept my head down as I walked briskly back, shielding my face against the growing wind. I shut the door quietly, slipping my shoes off as carefully as I could. There was a silence to the house that felt oppressive, tense. I had the strong urge to barricade myself in my bedroom until the morning.<p>

But there was a tinkling of bells at my feet, and I looked down to see a skittish dog jumping on my foot. His front paws were on my leg, making it impossible to walk without kicking him in the face.

I shook him off gently. "Down, Brutus," I said without thinking.

He immediately sat and cocked his head.

Suddenly, Alastair was running into the room and Brutus scampered away.

"Naomi! Naomi, guess what?"

I let out an "oof" as he jumped at me. "I don't know, Al, what?"

"My mum's back! My mum and Aunt Katie!"

I forced my mouth to curl into a tight-lipped smile. "Are they now? That's wonderful. I can't wait to meet them," I said somewhat halfheartedly. Actually, Somewhat was probably a gigantic understatement.

So one of the women I'd just met was Emily Fitch, Alastair's mother and general force to be reckoned with.

I wished with all of my being that she was the one who screamed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the part where I don't apologize for being late because Emily Fitch :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I was going to wait until Christmas to post this, but this is close enough, right? Oh, Naomily readers. I have missed you. I apologize for my absence. Here's a present.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>It was only a few moments later that I realized I'd probably ruined dessert for the night, given that the milk I'd picked up at the market was currently creating a lovely stain on the driveway. Coupled with my less-than-ideal encounter with the Fitch twins, I absently wondered whether Alastair was about to need a new caretaker.<p>

I didn't have much time to ponder it, though, because Gina sped into the room, fussing over Alastair and shooing him upstairs to clean up.

"You can just pop in the kitchen and drop the milk off," she said as she straightened a picture on the wall.

"Actually, Gina, there might be a problem with the milk."

Gina straightened up quickly. "What's the problem with the milk?"

"There isn't any." I waited for a reaction, but she seemed to be too flustered to say anything. "I, um, I don't know if Ms. Fitch told you anything, but, well, she almost ran me over with her car on the way in and the milk was the first casualty."

"Emily almost ran you over? That's not like her."

That certainly wasn't the direction I was expecting this conversation to take. "I don't know? I'm not sure which is which."

Gina shook her head lightly. "Yes, right, you've never met them. Emily is the—"

"—quiet one?" a voice finished from the doorway. "Mysterious one? How would you begin to describe me, Gina?"

Both Gina and I turned to face her, our brains instinctively seeking the source of the interruption, like deer startled in the forest. I took in the small woman staring at me. (Her words were for Gina, but her eyes were appraising me. Her stare was brazen and unsettling. I fought the urge to roll my eyes; hadn't I worn out my share of enigmatic women with Effy?) She was small, someone you could easily knock over in a crowd, but the way she stood told me that wasn't ever going to happen. Emily Fitch was five foot three inches of every metal on the periodic table. Her back was immovable iron against the door frame; her hair was copper, sizzling and malleable, but I wondered how much she had to move before it started to rust. I wondered how many places and people were stained Emily Fitch-red.

"It was Katie that almost ran Naomi over," Ms. Fitch continued. Gina still got her words, and I wished she'd get her stare, too. "Though, in Katie's defense, Naomi wasn't paying much attention." She tilted her head and finally addressed me. "Normally, when you hear a car driving behind you, you're supposed to move out of the way."

"Yes, well, normally when you drive a car you're supposed to keep an eye out for pedestrians," I fired back without thinking.

No one said anything after that, not even Gina who usually had something to say about everything. Eventually, Ms. Fitch heaved herself off the door frame and jingled her keys.

"Don't worry, Gina, Naomi and I will replace that milk for you."

"Um?"

"Oh, go on, dear. If you hurry now you'll make it back just in time." Gina was moving again and pushing me closer to Ms. Fitch, and although my brain was telling me to high-tail it back the other way, my feet were running into skinny jean-clad legs and I didn't really have a choice.

We walked to the car in silence. I made sure to hang back a couple steps, waiting for Ms. Fitch to have a change of heart and dismiss me. But she either didn't notice my discomfort or willfully ignored it, and I soon found myself sitting awkwardly in the passenger seat of a car nicer than anything I'd ever touched.

"Do you do that often?" Ms. Fitch asked once she turned onto the road.

"Get hit by cars?"

"No, help capture skittish dogs."

I frowned and slumped against the seat. "I can't say that I've had much opportunity."

"Well, if you'd had other opportunities, would you be the sort of person who would always help to capture skittish dogs?"

"Who wouldn't?"

"Would Alastair?"

"I don't know." Ms. Fitch looked over at me, her eyebrows silently pressing for an answer. "Probably not," I ventured.

"How long have you been working for me?" she asked, flipping her turn signal.

"A few months."

"And what does it say about you that, in the span of '_a few months'_, you've not turned my son into the kind of person who would always help to capture skittish dogs?"

"Well, what does it say about you that you're not the sort of person who thanks those people that have just helped capture her skittish dog?"

"I'm not interested in my character; I've had a whole life to come to terms with it. I'm asking about yours."

"Well, that's not fair. Everything you do reflects on your character."

"Really. Every little thing reflects who I am. The way I drink a glass of water, how I hold my fork. These are all meaningful."

I rolled my eyes, beginning to get irritated. "You're being pedantic. Of course those things don't matter. But every decision you make, every opinion you form, every _question you ask_"—I emphasized this bit loudly—"tells me a little bit more about you. So you may not _want_ to dwell on your character, but you're revealing it anyway."

"So are you."

"Yes, I know. I never said I was immune."

Ms. Fitch smiled, and I couldn't be sure if that meant she liked me or if she was about to destroy my entire reasoning process. "So you're susceptible to unintentionally revealing bits of your character as well—maybe the bits you don't want to reveal: the stubborn, argumentative, hotheaded bits."

"I am _not_ hothea—"

"So," she continued, oblivious to my interruption, "the question becomes which bits of character are the right ones. Is your character the person you _want _to appear as, or is it unfair to judge you based on how you react in an argument? If you're carefully considering decisions and opinions before you make them, that's not authentic. That's misleading."

"No, that's thinking." I leaned my head against my hand, turning toward the window in the hopes that the scenery would calm me down. It was only then that I realized the car wasn't moving anymore. "How long have we been parked?"

Ms. Fitch smiled and killed the engine. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I don't want to answer your question," I said, crossing my arms. "I just want to get some sodding milk."

She laughed and tossed me a couple quid. I stayed in the shop longer than I should have, and when I asked myself what the hell had just happened, no one answered.

/

Alastair, to put it nicely, had the worst case of hero worship I'd ever seen. He asked his mother questions all throughout dinner, which was a surprising change of pace for a kid who normally said three words a week. He was too excited to hold any cutlery and I had to remind him countless times to eat his dinner. But he ignored me in favor of his mum, and didn't seem to be put off by how much she was ignoring him.

She noticed him once the whole night. When he accidentally spilled his milk, she whined his name in a world-weary voice.

(But I saw her smile when he laughed).

As for the other Ms. Fitch, Alastair paid a lot of attention to her as well, but it was the attention of a disgruntled father. He glared at her when she started yelling about "those wankers from accounting," and he huffed without any subtlety when she interrupted Gina for the fifth time. It was good that Gina and I weren't sitting across from each other, because I knew that it would have only taken one look.

It wasn't much better sitting across from Ms. Fitch, however. She and Katie hogged most of the conversation. It wasn't particularly interesting—mostly about work and boyfriends and boring parties. She didn't feel the need to include others and that was alright with me. It gave me more time to observe her. Not in a creepy way—I was just curious. I was curious because she made me curious. Because she looked young enough to be my peer, but given Alastair's age I guessed that she had to be in her early thirties. Because her smirk, so identical to her sister's, seemed wrong. It didn't fit with brown eyes that crinkled when she laughed or ears that burned when Gina asked a probing question. I suspected that she was a nicer person than she let on, but I couldn't imagine why she was so quick to put up a front.

Dinner was longer than usual. The dessert was lovely, and I accredited that all to the milk. I didn't look at Ms. Fitch once as I ate it. By the end of the meal, Alastair was positively buzzing. It was past his bedtime and he was still so excited to see his mum and aunt. I had to chuckle at his energy—I'd never seen it before.

By ten I was itching to get Alastair into bed—for one, it was hours past the time he normally turned in. But I was anxious to sleep as well. I'd had enough excitement for one day, and I wanted to process it on my terms. I had no illusions about how poorly I'd sleep, but at least, in my bed, I'd be free to wonder about the Fitches without the fear of icy glares.

Gina was talking with Katie and Alastair was trying in vain to get his mother's attention. But she was tapping away at her phone, scoffing at it and shooing Alastair away when he got too vocal. After the fifth time, he gave up and ran over to me.

"Naomi, can I show my mum some of my drawings?"

I made a show of looking at my watch, even though I was perfectly aware of what time it was. "It's past ten, Al. You've got to get to bed."

"Please, Naomi? Just one drawing."

"I don't think so."

He stomped his foot in frustration. "Why not?"

"It's way past your bed time. You can show her tomorrow morning, alright?"

He glared at me, disappointed and petulant.

"I'm not going to budge on this, Al. You have ten minutes to get ready for bed before I come check on you."

With an angry grunt, he took off running. I could hear every stair creak under his thunderous steps.

"You seem to have quite the way with him," Ms. Fitch sneered from her armchair.

"I suppose you'd rather I ignore him, like you do?"

She looked up from her phone. "You have nerve, judging my parenting skills when you've only known me for a few hours."

"I could say the same of you."

"You're not his parent."

The amused smirk she'd worn all night was gone, which was why I checked my response. (_Neither are you_, I would have said). I had the sense we were heading into dangerous territory, not like the barbs we'd been trading in the car. Those were the kind of witty insults two rival spies would fire at each other—mostly lighthearted, but with just the right amount of annoying. This was the kind of conversation that made spies draw guns.

"Excuse me, I'm going to check on Alastair," I said instead, rising from my seat.

"When you're finished, join me in the library. I'd like to have a chat."

I nodded stiffly and left the room. Given the choice of dealing with a sullen Alastair or his sullen mother, I'd pick Alastair any day.

He was already in bed by the time I got to his room, laying on his side and staring at the doorway.

"You said I had ten minutes," he grumbled.

"So I did. But it looks like you're all ready anyway." He made no response as I pulled up a chair. "Would you like me to read to you?" He nodded. "Alright. Which one?"

"You know," he mumbled into his pillow.

"So I do," I said, reaching for the tattered book sticking out from his bookcase. I pulled my chair closer to Alastair, angling it so he could see the pictures and I could see the words, and I began to read.

"'It was then that the fox appeared. 'Good morning,' said the fox. 'Good morning,' the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing…'"

/

After I'd read a chapter, I tucked Alastair in and made my way back downstairs. Ms. Fitch was waiting for me, apparently engrossed in a book as she sat curled in a loveseat. I lingered in the doorway, expecting her to notice me, but she didn't, so I settled myself on the couch to her left.

She kept reading. I waited in silence.

"Did he fall asleep alright?" she finally asked after two minutes.

"Yes, he settled down after we read a bit."

"What did you read?" she asked. Her question was curious but her tone was one of disinterest.

"_The Little Prince_."

Ms. Fitch finally looked up from her book. "Did you? I've always loved that book. I like the flower the most, I think."

I scrunched my nose. "The flower? But she's so arrogant."

"Who's your favorite character, then?"

"The fox," I answered immediately.

And, in response, Ms. Fitch immediately rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. The fox isn't your favorite character. That's just what you're supposed to say."

"No, he is my favorite! He teaches the prince the value of his rose."

"The fox is a two-dimensional character. He serves a purpose, educates the prince, and then disappears."

"Yeah, and the rose is shallow and manipulative."

"And the prince loves her anyway."

"Sorry?"

"He doesn't have to water her every day, or give her the glass case."

"Sure he does," I countered. "She asked him to."

Ms. Fitch folded her hands in her lap. "If I asked you to drive into town right now and get me some ice cream, would you do it? Are you obligated to do it?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "No, but that isn't something you need. The flower needs water for survival. She couldn't have watered herself."

"She doesn't need the glass case; she proves as much when she tells him to leave it."

"Yeah, and she also waits until he leaves to tell him she loves him, too. It's cruel."

"It isn't cruel at all. It gives him a reason to come back."

"If he loved her before he met the fox, he wouldn't need a reason to come back. He would have done anyway."

"How do you know he wasn't planning to come back right from the start?"

"How do you know he was?"

I threw up my hands in frustration. "Oh, we could play this game all night. Neither of us knows anything."

Ms. Fitch crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair, smug. "The fox tames the prince, correct? He teaches the prince how to tame him, but he ends up taming the prince too, yes?"

"Yes."

"And, by the prince's own admission, he and the rose have already tamed each other—he just didn't know what it was called. And they grew to love each other. So it stands to reason that the prince and the fox, having undergone the same process as the prince and the rose, love each other, too."

"Right."

"So why doesn't the prince stay with the fox? Why does he go back to the rose?"

I frowned, stumped. "I…"

Ms. Fitch set her book on the floor and clasped her hands in her lap. "The fox is not my favorite character because he even fails at the purpose for which the author intended him. He cannot teach the prince something he already knows. The fox exists simply for the author to teach something to children."

I could only stare at her in defeat.

"So, now that we've reached our philosophical quota for this conversation, tell me a little about yourself. Where did you go to school?"

"I…I was homeschooled," I stammered, shaking my head in an effort to refocus my thoughts.

"By whom?"

"First by my aunt, and then by my friend's mother."

"Why the change?"

"I, well, I didn't get along with my aunt very well and then my friend died, and I couldn't really leave Anthea on her own."

"Anthea?"

"Anthea Stonem. Her daughter was my best friend."

"Anthea Stonem," Ms. Fitch repeated. "Hmm." She pushed down on the arms of her chair as she rose. "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"Um, sure," I answered. She nodded at me and left the room.

I made no move to follow her, preferring to use the few minutes it would take her to make the tea as more time to process my thoughts. She was so like Effy—erudite and aloof, her moods changing at the drop of a hat—but it was the differences that mattered. She was brighter than Effy when she wanted to be, more penetrating than curious in her questioning. But she was more hostile, too. Effy had taken a liking to me immediately. She'd been the one coaxing me. But it was impossible to tell with Ms. Fitch. From some of our conversations, I could have concluded that she did like me. From others, I got the overwhelming sense that she was on the edge of sending me packing. She liked to play with extremes, and I'd just spent the better part of my life trying to find stability in the middle.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

"Here we are," she said as she handed me my tea.

"Thank you."

"So was it adequate, this schooling of yours? Are you qualified to teach my son?"

I took a sip of my tea, grateful for something to do other than look at her. "Well, the last five years were somewhat unconventional. But if you're talking about academic subjects, then yes, I think I'm qualified enough."

"Enough?"

"It isn't like I need to know advanced algebra. He's only eight."

"Are you suggesting that Alastair is simple?"

"No, I'm suggesting that I've had a lot of experience teaching eight-year-old boys, and most of it didn't have a thing to do with books."

"And where, might I ask, did you accumulate this experience?"

"At a center for disadvantaged kids. Five days a week for the better part of three years."

Ms. Fitch smirked into her tea. "Having experience does not guarantee success."

I bristled at that. "I was very successful. Ask Gina, or I'll give you Gwen's contact information at the center, and you can ask her. Or even Anthea—"

She stopped me with a wave of her hand. "You don't have to. I believe you."

"You believe me?" I questioned, doubt dripping from my words. "Just like that? I get angry, and you believe me?"

"Of course," she shrugged. "Because you aren't angry, really. I just took a few too many jabs at your pride. There's no better indicator of what someone cares about than what makes them indignant."

"Caring about something does not guarantee that you're good at it." I threw her words back at her, wearing a smirk of my own.

"True," she conceded. "But at the very least it guarantees that you want to be."

"And that's good enough?"

She put her tea on the coffee table next to her chair. "For now."

We sipped our tea in silence.

"Look, if you want to find another teacher for Alastair, just tell me now," I finally said. "I'd rather know before either of us gets too attached."

(I didn't want to tell her how I'd already become unbearably fond of her son.)

"No, I think you'll do fine," she said after a moment. "Better than fine, probably."

"But you clearly don't approve of me."

"I don't?" Ms. Fitch laughed. "You know me well enough to guess at my feelings? Well, then I definitely can't let you go. That's extraordinary."

"No, but you were—"

"—only asking questions," she finished. "I haven't made any conclusions yet."

"Oh."

"Besides, there's so much more of _The Little Prince_ that we haven't discussed. I think I'll like what you have to say."

"You won't agree with it," I grumbled.

"No, probably not." She rose again from her chair, this time taking her teacup. "It's been a lovely chat, Ms. Campbell. I look forward to seeing you bright and early for breakfast."

"Yeah, you too."

It was a reflexive response, more out of habit than anything, and I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out if I'd actually meant it.


End file.
